


Synth Sense aka the Rest Stop fic

by Freya_Kendra



Category: Sentinel - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-30
Updated: 2009-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Kendra/pseuds/Freya_Kendra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timeframe: Immediately after TSbBS</p><p>Is it possible to synthesize a sentinel? Immediately after the events of The Sentinel, by Blair Sandburg (the series finale), Blair is tracked down by a woman from Boston, who talks him into taking a road trip with her. "You need to go away from here," she said after those first days together. "This place, this city ... it's all wrong for you. Let's go." If only he knew her real intentions....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synth Sense aka the Rest Stop fic

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as a WIP on Cascadetimes in Sept & Oct of 2005.
> 
> This fic was built on a foundation established by the Matchbox 20 song, Rest Stop. What might have happened to Blair, if he had been the subject of that song, and had been abandoned on a highway just three miles from the rest stop? That question led to another, as I wondered why someone might do that to him. And where were they headed in the first place? More questions continued to rise, and this WIP continued to grow. Eventually, it went way beyond the Rest Stop fic it started out as, evolving into an adventure full of mystery and intrigue.

~1~

It had been a long time since Blair had hitch-hiked. Actually, he'd almost never needed to. Rides were rarely a problem to come by, even on those occasions when he was without wheels - as now. If he could just get to a truck stop he would be fine. Truckers were a much friendlier group than TV and movies made them out to be, and Blair could generally strike up enough of a conversation to encourage _someone_ to take him further up the road, especially when he could offer to share the burden of driving. But that had been several years ago. Things were different for Blair now. First off, he never updated his license to operate big rigs. Even if he had, it wouldn't help him now. There obviously hadn't been a real truck stop on this road for decades, not since the interstate went in.

Even rest stops were hard to come by around here. Still two miles from the nearest one, Blair figured once he reached it he'd be lucky to find a dirty toilet and a rusty sink. No one used this road, anymore - no one except the stragglers who refused to desert the dying town of Weaver's Creek, Colorado. And Julie Stalwort.

Not that Julie was one of those stragglers. Nope. Just the opposite. She wouldn't sit still anywhere for any length of time. Home for her meant the four winds.

Blair had thought that was what he wanted, too - at least for a while - at least until he could rediscover himself, figure out what should come next. Once the controversy in Cascade settled down he might take Simon up on that offer to join Major Crimes for real. He just needed some time and some space to let the guiding forces he had always sensed around him do some hard pushing rather than the gentle prodding they had used years before to lead him into anthropology. He definitely needed a hard push this time around. He was at a crossroads unlike any he had ever known before.

The sound of a car horn made Blair jump. He turned to face headlights coming directly toward him. Hitchhiking suddenly took second priority. His immediate concern was simply getting out of the way. He threw himself to the ground just in time to feel the whoosh of gasoline-scented air. And then the car was gone. Just like that. It hadn't even tried to stop.

"Dammit," He said aloud as he tried to extricate his hands from the greasy mud just past the road's shoulder. He found himself sliding around in the stuff as he tried to get off of his knees and onto his feet. It was not a pleasant experience - nor was it a successful one. Just as he managed to get one foot on semi-solid ground, he fell back onto his rear-end. "Ah, son-of-a-... Julie, I am so going to..."

 _What_? What was he going to do? As unlikely as it was that he would ever see her again, how could he hope to actually _do_ anything at all?

Julie had come to him three weeks earlier, after seeing his news conference confessing to fraud, to writing a work of fiction and claiming it to be a factual thesis on sentinels. She had traveled all the way across the country just to meet him, starting out from somewhere near Boston.

He had to admit that thoughts of her quest had stoked his ego - especially at a time when that ego desperately needed some serious stoking. She had said she could see the truth in his eyes, and that it was nowhere near the truth any of the media were reporting. She wanted to know his truth, or so she had told him that day outside the loft when she had finally tracked him down. She'd looked into his eyes, and he'd looked into hers, and somehow the truth became whatever they both wanted it to be. For five whole days there was no truth beyond the two of them. Reality became the little bubble they built around themselves.

"You need to go away from here," She said after those first days together. "This place, this city ... it's all wrong for you. Let's go."

"Go where?"

"Anywhere, just away. Come on. Come with me."

And so he had. _Why not?_ Some time away would do him good, right?

Right. It had done him a ton of good so far, hadn't it? First, she had insisted they take her car, a 1975 hatchback with balding tires and a tendency to overheat. Second, both Blair's cell phone and his ATM card had stopped working for reasons as yet unknown, helping him to deplete his cash reserves within days rather than months and leaving him completely cut off from the rest of the world. Third...

Blair stayed on his butt in the mud, resting his arms on his knees and trying to keep his filthy hands away from the few spots on his jeans where cloth still showed through. This was what was 'third' on his list of reasons why he should never have gone with Julie. She had thought nothing of leaving him on the side of a practically deserted highway in the middle of the night for no reason other than that she had grown tired of him. She hadn't even given Blair a chance to ask her what happened to the truth they had supposedly found together.

"Yeah, right," Blair said aloud. If she was so all-seeing when it came to truth, then why was she always running away? That's what her life had become, after all. Blair had let his pride get the better of him, thinking she had been running _to_ him, but that wasn't what happened at all, was it? No. She had been running _from_ something in Boston. Now she was running from him, and he hadn't even done a thing to deserve it. He had simply fallen asleep in her car. _What was the crime in that?_

"You were dreaming, Blair," She had said after roughly shaking him awake. "You were mumbling something about Jim in your sleep. At first I tried to listen, to see if I could make sense of whatever you were mumbling. But then I just realized... It just dawned on me I didn't care. That's when I knew I had to go on, on my own. So just go, okay? Just get out. Take your backpack and get out."

Groggy and confused, Blair had no chance to argue as she reached across him and pushed his door open.

"Go on. Get out," She repeated.

And then he did, stumbling into a sign he could just make out in the darkness. "Rest Stop 3 Miles."

And then she was gone.

And now he was here, sitting on his butt in the mud, penniless, phone-less, a thousand miles from Cascade and still two miles away from the nearest outpost of civilization in the form of a dirty toilet and a rusty sink.

Truth. He had done it all for truth. Yet he had forgotten the most important truth of all: a well-honed friendship should over-rule starry-eyed infatuation any day. _It's pheromones, Jim_ , he had once explained to his friend. _When they say you have chemistry with someone, it's really true._

Blair had had chemistry with Julie, but apparently theirs was a chemistry that interacted negatively with the atmosphere outside of Cascade.

"I'm sorry, Jim," Blair said into the drizzle falling out of the night sky in an obsolete corner of Nowhere, Colorado. "I really am. I blew it, man. Strike two, I guess, huh?" Realizing the implications of his chosen metaphor, Blair smiled sadly. "Does that mean I get another shot at bat?" Even so, he knew he was going to have to get himself back to the ballpark first.

Wet and tired, Blair struggled to his feet, wiped his dirty hands on his dirty jeans and continued his slippery walk.

~2~

Three miles can feel like thirty when it's raining and you're walking on muddy terrain. Blair's legs were shaking by the time he made it to the decrepit building in the center of the promised rest stop, only to find there was no rest to be found. The building had been abandoned, its doors held tightly closed by a thick, unyielding chain.

"Perfect," He said through a sarcastic grin. "This is just... Arrgggh!" Frustrated, he banged his hand hard against the immovable door - a little too hard. "Ow. Yeah, great. Nothing like adding a broken hand to the list. This night's just getting better and better."

"Hey, watch it, will you?"

The gruff voice coming from the other side of the door startled Blair enough to forget about his throbbing hand. He backed up a few steps while he scanned the front of the building for any other potential openings. "Who said that?" He shouted, confused. "How'd you get in there?"

"Who are _you_?" The voice called back to him. "And why should I tell you how to get in here?"

 _What could it hurt to offer his name?_ "My name's Blair. Blair Sandburg. I'm stuck out here. I've been walking for two hours, man. I just want to get out of the rain for a while."

"That's what they all say."

"What? Who all says that? Look, do you at least have a phone in there?"

"No phone. No lights. No motorcar. Not a single luxury."

"Funny," Blair said softly. "Real funny," though it wasn't of course. "Look, can you tell me how much further up the road Weaver's Creek is?"

"Weaver's Creek?"

"Yeah, Weaver's Creek."

"Now _that's_ funny."

"Come on, man. I'm too wet and tired to be playing games. Can you just tell me where I can find some shelter and a telephone?"

"Not in Weaver's Creek, that's for sure."

"Why not?"

"Weaver's Creek's all closed up. Nothing in Weaver's Creek anymore. Nothing but the rats and the cockroaches. Bentley Corporation seen to that."

"A friend of mine was driving to Weaver's Creek." _Yeah, some friend_.

"That friend of yours ought to be heading back here by now, then. Nothing in Weaver's Creek anymore. Nothing any further up the road there, neither. End of the line there. End of the world, maybe too. You ought to go back out to the road, look for your friend."

Blair glanced at the empty highway behind him. There still wasn't a headlight in sight. He turned back to the door. How could he believe anything said by a faceless voice inside a sealed building? Maybe there wasn't even anyone there. Maybe it was all in his soggy imagination. On the other hand, it could be a ghost. "Don't go doing that to yourself," He said softly. "It's just some senile transient, that's all. He's the one with the hallucinations, not me."

"Look," Blair shouted. "Can you just tell me how much farther up the road Weaver's Creek is?"

"You mean where it used to be."

"Fine. Where did it used to be?"

"About ten miles, give or take."

"Ten miles? I can't do another ten miles tonight-"

"You're better off going back the way you came. Thirty miles down to Shepherd's View. Find a phone there."

"I just told you I can't do ten miles tonight. How do you expect me to do thirty? Come on, let me in. Just for a little while."

Silence. Blair waited, but still heard nothing. "Hello?" No response. "Hello?" He started pounding on the door. "Hel-"

"I told you to be careful, now didn't I?" This time the voice was directly behind him.

Blair about jumped out of his skin. "How'd you...?"

The seventy-ish man was about Blair's height, but thinner and stooped at the shoulder. He seemed to sag within a dark pea coat that was frayed at the edges much like he was. His hair was a tangle of gray beneath a dark, knit cap. A few days worth of bearded growth failed to hide his craggy face. Actually, he looked a lot like an ancient sailor - not exactly the type of character Blair would expect to find setting up house at an abandoned rest stop far from any waterways.

"Well don't just stand there. You said you wanted to go inside, didn't you?"

Blair shook his head, dumbfounded, as he obediently followed the old man around the small building to where a back door had been wedged open and held that way by several concrete blocks. A deeper darkness than that which Blair had grown accustomed to in the rainy night seemed to fill the inner sanctum he had been desperate - until now - to penetrate. Somehow that darkness reached out to him, causing him to shiver with a chill far colder than what the damp had given him. Suddenly he did not want to go inside.

"Well, go on, then," The old man said behind him. "Get in. I've had enough of this wet."

Reluctantly, knowing he had already come too far to refuse the old man's hospitality now, Blair slid sideways through the door.

~3~

In the Major Crimes Division of the Cascade Police Department, Captain Simon Banks sat at his desk, quietly observing Jim Ellison, who easily matched both his patience and his silence.

"Jim," Banks said finally. "Where is Sandburg?"

"I told you, Simon. I don't know. He said he needed some time. Frankly, he deserved it, sir."

"I know he did, Jim. I'm not saying he didn't."

"He'll come back when he's ready."

Simon sighed heavily, an action that seemed to cause he shoulders to sag.

"What's this about, sir?" Jim asked, realizing the time had come to confront whatever issue the captain was trying to avoid.

"Something's wrong, Jim. I don't know what, and I don't know why, but something..." He shook his head, seeming confused.

"Whatever it is, it can't involve Blair, sir."

But the look coming from the other side of the desk indicated the exact opposite. "I hope I'm wrong, Jim. I really do. But from what I can see..."

There was more than simple confusion emanating from the man on the other side of the desk. Captain Banks was worried.

Jim tensed. "What is it, Simon?"

"Jim, I could swear Blair is being erased."

The detective went cold. "Sir?"

"No, Jim. I'm sorry. That didn't come out right. When I say 'erased' I mean 'erased,' not 'terminated.' It looks like someone is going to a lot of trouble to make it look like he never existed."

Simon pushed a couple of file folders toward Jim. "At first I thought it was a mistake. Blair's name was removed from the roster of academy cadets. I know Blair didn't do it. He said he wouldn't pull out without talking to both of us first, and I trust him in that."

"I do too, sir."

"I know I didn't do it, either. So I started digging; and Jim... I couldn't find a mention of him anywhere in our system. His record is just, it's gone, Jim. Like he was never here."

"We need to find him, Simon."

"Yes. We do. But you have no idea where he might have gone?"

"None, sir. His cell phone's been deactivated also. I thought..." Jim sighed heavily, suddenly angry at himself. "Simon, I thought that was just Blair's way of finding _space_. I should've known he wouldn't be that careless."

"Track him down, Jim. I'll put Taggart, Rafe and H on this with you. Meanwhile, I'm going to do some digging of my own. I've got some markers to call in with the feds. And if they're involved with whatever's going on here, they damn well better tell me."

Blair felt like a refugee in an overcrowded emergency evacuation center. The old building had held basic facilities, nothing more; and its current resident had supplied little else. The old man had a camping chair he refused to share, a hibachi to which he had jerry-rigged an innovative ventilation system in the former ladies' room, and a kerosene lamp. Blair's bed would be the cold, tile floor, with his own backpack serving as a pillow. Still, it was dry.

"I really appreciate this," Blair said after warming his hands over the hibachi.

The old man stared at him and merely grunted in reply.

"You haven't been here very long yourself, have you?" Blair added.

This time the man didn't even bother to grunt.

"Mind if I ask where you came here from?" Blair smiled. "I mean, you don't really look like the cowboy type."

Still nothing.

"I'd guess east coast. Boston, maybe. ou know, that's where my friend-" Blair stopped. Why did he keep calling her his friend? Clearly she was anything but. Jim, on the other hand... Blair stared at the small grill and pictured Jim in the loft - in the warm, cozy loft, sharing a beer and a laugh.

"Hey, kid? You all talk and no ears?" The old man said angrily.

"Excuse me?"

"You're askin' me all these questions, I ask you just one and I might as well be talkin' to a tree."

"I'm sorry. I didn't hear you. I was thinking abou-"

"I asked about your friend. This the same friend drove into Weaver's Creek? The one dumped you in the middle of nowhere to just go nowhere anyway?"

"Yeah." Blair nodded sadly. "That's the one. I guess she's not really a friend."

"Not likely. Why?"

"What?"

"Why? Why Weaver's Creek?"

"I don't know. She just told me it was someplace she wanted to go."

"Why'd you go along?"

"I don't know that either. She talked me into getting away, living life on the road for awhile."

The old man sniffed in derision.

"I needed to do some thinking," Blair said in defense. "Anyway, it seemed like a good idea at the time."

Another grunt.

"Yeah," Blair couldn't help but agree.

"Why you?"

"Why me, what?"

"What's so special about you?"

"Excuse me?"

"She talked you into going with her? Why you? Why not someone else?"

"Um, it's kind of a long ... _complicated_ story."

"Got time."

Blair shrugged. He couldn't think of a single reason why he should refuse. "I don't suppose you get too much news here, do you?"

The old man raised his eyebrows yet kept his expression blank.

"No. I didn't think so. You see, I was a teaching fellow, in the doctorate program at Rainier. Anthropology. My research was on the subject of sentinels..."

~4~

"Julie Michelle Stalwort," Taggart read from the file in front of him. "Age twenty-nine. Massachusetts license. No criminal record. Last known address, 57215 Elmont Avenue, Boston." Taggart chuckled, shaking his head. "Jim, when Sandburg finds out you started a file on this woman before they even left town-"

"He'll thank me for getting his butt out of trouble again," Jim finished. "He's got a history, Taggart. Come on." He took the file and addressed the rest of the team in Simon's office. "She's driving a 1975 white Ford Escort. Massachusetts plates. Echo-Bravo-Charlie-four-niner-eight. Spotted by Idaho state police on highway 26 three days ago. Engine was overheating. Driver refused assistance and exited for service at a town called Wellcreek. Rafe, you said you were able to track down someone in Wellcreek?"

"Yeah, Jim. There was a clerk at a gas station there who remembered both Julie and Blair. He said they tried to pay using a debit card - Blair's - but it was declined. He said Blair seemed pretty upset, but the woman acted like it was no big deal. They paid in cash and left."

"Left to go where?" Jim asked.

"He said it looked like they were heading back to the freeway."

"Did they say anything to suggest a destination?"

"No, Jim. Sorry. That's everything the guy remembered."

"Okay." Jim sighed, rubbing his hand across his face as though trying to wipe away the frustration. It didn't work. "Three days. That could put them ..." He threw the file down onto the table. "In the middle of frickin' Mexico for all we know."

"No way, Jim," Henri countered. "Not with that car. Think about it. Here, look at the map again. They're following a pretty straight route, moving steadily east and south. I say we go to Wellcreek, and hit the road from there."

Jim gently tapped Henri's arm in appreciation. "You're right, H. Thanks. But I need you here. That buddy of yours with the state police has been our best resource so far. Stay on top of him. Anything comes through at all, call me. Rafe?" Jim turned away without waiting for a response. "Ready for a road trip?"

"Well?" Blair prompted the old man after completing his abbreviated telling of the story about the ruination of his academic career.

His companion was oblivious. The old man's eyes were distant, gazing upward with an intensity that suggested he might actually believe he could penetrate the ceiling to see the heavens beyond.

"Hello?" Blair pressed. "Look who's talking to a tree now," He said softly to himself. "Mr.-" Blair began again, then stopped himself short and shook his head in bewilderment. "Do you realize I told you my life's story but I still don't even know your name? Who are you? Why are you here?"

"No time," The man answered finally. He blinked his eyes back into focus and shot Blair with a cold and determined gaze. "Time to go." Rising, he reached behind him for a small duffle bag. It was already fully packed, even zipped closed as though he had intended to leave all along.

"Go?" Blair remained sitting. "Listen man, I'm sorry I intruded here. Really, I just wanted a place to dry out a little. You don't have to go anywhere. I promise I'll shut up."

"Can't stay here." The old man grabbed Blair's backpack.

"Hey! I need that."

"Come on." The old man wasted no time moving to the door.

"What? Why do you want me to go with you? Where are you going?"

"No time for that. Come on."

"I don't even know who you are." Blair stubbornly held his ground. "Why do you think I want to leave a perfectly dry building to follow you out into the night, especially when I don't even know where you intend to go?"

The man froze, glaring at Blair. "Maybe to save your life."

They watched each other in the dim light from the lantern as Blair tried to assess the man's words.

"What?" Blair finally asked, breaking the eerie silence. "What are you talking about?"

He started to hear something then, a distant, dull thumping sound.

"No time to explain." The man squeezed through the door and went out into the night. "Come on," He shouted back, carrying Blair's backpack into the woods rather than heading back to the freeway.

As the thumping grew louder, Blair realized a helicopter was approaching. Had the old man heard it first? Had that been what he had been focusing on at the end of Blair's story.

"No," Blair said aloud. "That's crazy." It would mean the old man had sentinel hearing. _Was that why he had complained about Blair banging on the door?_ Did the noise bother his sentinel-sensitive ears. "Can't be."

The thumping was just about overhead. Blair could wait for it, and then ask to use the radio to get a hold of Jim. But what if the old man was right? What if the helicopter signaled danger rather than safety? And what was a helicopter doing out here in the middle of nowhere anyway? No one had any reason to think Blair might be in trouble.

Besides, the old man had Blair's backpack. What choice did he really have?

Blair squeezed through the door and ran into the woods.

~5~

Captain Simon Banks was not in a pleasant mood. The chief had insisted on his direct involvement in solving a rash of petty crimes that clearly did not fall under his division's scope of responsibility.

"We have a shortage of officers," The chief had said on the phone. "Everyone needs to pull extra duty."

"Major Crimes is already pulling extra duty," was his reply. "We're under enough pressure to solve the cases we have, ones that actually put the city at risk. You can't ask this unit to go after shoplifters and teenagers trying to buy beer."

"I'm not asking your unit. I'm asking you. No, I'm telling you. Take care of it, Banks. And while we're on the subject, what's this I hear about two of your detectives going out on some scavenger hunt in Idaho?"

"They're on a legitimate case."

"What case is that? I'm not aware of anything leading to Idaho. Whatever it is, I'm sure you can find enough answers using a very practical devise called a telephone."

"I can't do that, sir. I need them in the field."

"We need them in Cascade, Banks. Recall them. Immediately."

And then the conversation was ended. There was no chance for rebuttal.

The knock on his door could not have been more poorly timed. "What is it?" He shouted angrily.

"Captain Banks?" The gray suit that entered did nothing to help Simon's disposition.

"Marconin? I see you've finally learned the significance of a closed door," The captain said, referring to a previous encounter with the FBI agent in a case that, perhaps ironically, involved a missing Blair Sandburg[1]. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Officially?" Marconin handed a file folder across the desk. "I'm delivering some case notes you requested on the Radcliff murder."

Simon eyed his visitor suspiciously as he accepted the proffered file. "I asked for these two weeks ago. Why now?"

Shrugging, Marconin casually took a seat opposite Simon. "It was convenient."

"Convenient?"

"It provided me with an excuse to talk with you unofficially."

Simon set the file on his desk. "What's this about?"

"Captain, I understand you're meeting with a certain degree of ... _difficulty_ in your attempts to determine the extent of FBI involvement in an unofficial case involving a mutual acquaintance of ours."

"If you're talking about Blair Sandburg, then you should know by now that the word for me is 'friend', not acquaintance."

"I stand corrected."

"So what are you going to tell me to do about it? I've been told to butt out, back off and mind my own business in enough politically correct ways to fill this entire building with manure. What in god's name do you think you could possibly add to that pile?"

"You should know I'm not discussing this on behalf of the FBI, Captain. I did say this was unofficial."

"Okay," Simon said softly. "It's my turn to stand corrected. Spit it out, Marconin. What have you got for me?"

"Not a lot, I'm afraid. Officially, Sandburg is not recognized as a missing person. There's no evidence to-"

"What do you mean _no evidence_? We've got missing files, deleted bank records-"

"Human error. Computer error."

"And a roommate who has officially filed a missing persons report."

"And a missing person who, frankly, might very much want to go missing."

"Get out of here, Marconin. I don't need-"

"Hold on, Captain." The agent raised his hand to emphasize his request. "I'm telling you the official stance. Now let me tell you what I think."

Simon glared at him, but held silent.

"There's something going on inside."

Instinctively, Simon Banks began to scan the ceiling.

"You're not under surveillance," Marconin said. "At least not yet. Whoever's involved isn't in a position to initiate that level of deployment. But they are managing to pull some pretty high-level strings."

"The chief?"

"Blackmail would be my guess."

"What on earth could they have on him?"

"Hard to say. But you and I both know you could get something on anyone, if you look hard enough."

"So - unofficially - can I expect your help on this one, Marconin?"

Something very close to a smile touched the agent's lips. "Captain, we may not have started out on the right foot, but in working with all of you I came to have a lot of respect for your entire team. That includes Sandburg. As for my side of things, if we have a bad agent, I have every intention to flush him out."

~6~

Thirty miles past Wellcreek, Idaho, Rafe took the wheel of their rented Taurus while Jim focused his awareness on the landscape whizzing by. Shifted fully into sentinel mode, he was determined to find something to tell him Blair had been there - a piece of fabric from Sandburg's backpack, a familiar scent, anything that might suggest Blair's passage. The odds of actually making such a discovery at 70 miles per hour were certainly against him, yet what other options were left? He could have Rafe pull off at every exit and interview the locals; or he could follow his gut. Right now his gut told him to keep going. How far and how long prompted an entirely new set of questions.

With his thoughts directed so far outward, he was oblivious to the sound coming from the cell phone in his own pocket.

"Hey, Jim." Rafe nudged him. "You gonna answer that? Jim?"

The sentinel-detective's slow response prompted a more forceful nudge.

"Yeah," Jim finally replied, coming back to himself. He grabbed the phone as though on instinct and voiced a terse "Ellison" in lieu of a greeting.

"Jim?" Simon said from the other end of the line. "Jim? Hello? Listen, this is a bad connection, but-"

"Simon? I can hear you fi-"

"A _really_ bad connection. But if you can hear me at all, I have to inform you that the chief has ordered your immediate return to-"

"Sorry, Simon," Jim answered, quickly grasping the intent of his captain's hidden message. "You're breaking up."

"Officially, there is no case."

"Still not hearing you, Captain."

"There is no evidence to suggest Sandburg left town against his own free will. The feds are with us in this."

 _The feds, with us_? "Hello? Simon? Still not hearing you well, but it sounded like you said we're working with the feds on this case?"

"Officially, there is no case. Do you hear me on that, Jim?"

"Sorry, Simon. I lost you." Jim clicked off the phone. Confused and concerned, he turned to meet Rafe's questioning glance. "Sounds like something's rotten in Cascade. Apparently, both the police chief and the feds want to make Blair's disappearance disappear." _Yet was someone in the FBI with Simon in an unofficial capacity?_

Jim's need to find Blair suddenly intensified, and so did his sentinel focus.

Blair was experiencing a particularly unpleasant feeling of deja-vu. Stumbling around in a wet, dark, mountain woods in the middle of the night was reminding him a little too much of the time he had followed Jim in search of bad-guy Quinn and his hostage, Simon Banks. These woods were no less dark, and no less wet. Blair was as good as blind. He had already lost all sense of direction. The rest stop could be behind him or in front of him or anywhere in between for all he could tell. And the old man seemed to be long gone. Even the helicopter Blair had considered waiting for had grown silent, the thumping from its rotors replaced by the more peaceful sounds of a forest night.

Blair Sandburg felt far from peaceful. When his toe collided with yet another fallen log, he cursed under his breath and then sat down on the soft, soggy bark. Since he was going nowhere anyway, he might as well remain right where he was. "You couldn't just stay in that warm, dry rest stop, could you?" He mumbled to himself. "No. You had to follow a crazy old man out into the middle of the woods." And the old man still had his backpack. "You are just batting a thousand, aren't you? Idiot. Stupid-"

At the snap of a twig, Blair's growing tirade came to a sudden halt. Someone - or something - was out there, watching him. _Could it be the old man, coming back to find him?_ Blair forced himself to swallow the urge to call out for Jim. He could not hold to the distant hope that his friend had miraculously tracked him down.

Rather than loudly whispering, _Hey_ _, old man, is that you_? Blair held silent until the dark woods surrounded him with an even darker essence, as several black-clad figures took shape before him, all with guns, and all aimed at him.

The old man watched from a distance, a stone sentinel in the darkness, as his young visitor was injected with some potion that caused him to sag into the arms of one of the dark figures. The man counted five of them, all in black, their faces hidden behind the night goggles that allowed them a taste of his own keen sight. Yet as they began to carry their new hostage away, a sixth man emerged. This one had a confident stride and a perhaps equally confident gaze, despite the absence of goggles. He moved into the midst of his black army, pointing as though dispensing specific orders.

"Be careful with him," The old man heard as he concentrated more effort into listening. "Mr. Dupris was explicit. Any damage at all will result in a deduction from your pay."

"Should we keep looking for-"

"No," The newcomer interrupted. "It's late. We'll get him soon enough." With that the new leader shifted his penetrating gaze into the trees, uncannily seeming to zero right in on the old man's position. And then a smile touched his lips, as though he knew the old man was there after all.

When they had gone, the old man moved away in a different direction, his plans suddenly altered. An hour later, he knocked on the door of a small house conveniently set halfway between Weaver's Creek and its nearest neighbor, Putnam Township, and nestled in the trees near an access road leading to Bentley Corporation's inactive paper mill. The old man said nothing to the person who answered. His mere presence spoke for him.

~7~

Jim and Rafe were still relying entirely on instinct as they entered Colorado. They were hundreds of miles from Wellcreek, Idaho, and they might as well have been chasing rainbows for all the evidence they had managed to gather since leaving that little town. Nor had they received any additional feedback from the department back in Cascade. Simon's cryptic phone call seemed to have brought an end to all other communications.

"Hey, Jim," Rafe said from the passenger seat, Jim having relieved him at the wheel a few hours earlier. "What do you say we stop for a bite at the next exit? Maybe we'll even get lucky and find someone who spotted Julie's car."

Shrugging in semi-agreement though he had no thought for food, Jim began to move into the right lane when he noticed red lights flashing behind him. A state patrol car was pulling him over. "Now what?" He asked aloud as he eased onto the shoulder.

Both detectives had their badges at the ready by the time the state trooper approached Jim's window. "We're detectives with the Cascade, Washington PD," Jim announced. "What's this about?"

In an alarmingly careless move, the trooper gazed up and down the freeway before giving his attention back to Jim. "I'm sorry about the inconvenience, detectives," He said as he pulled a piece of paper from behind his pad of tickets. "But I was asked to provide you with some information."

Jim glanced at Rafe before taking the paper handed to him.

"I understand you're looking for a white Escort," The trooper continued. "I can tell you that car was seen pulling onto Highway 41, about a hundred miles east of here." He shook his head. "I can also tell you that doesn't make a whole lot of sense."

"Why's that?" Jim asked.

"There's nothing up that way. Nothing but a dead town. That's why my buddy paid attention when he saw that little car head down there. Not too many vehicles take that road, and I don't know of a one that should have a need to. Every one my buddy has seen over the last two weeks is on that paper."

"Is there any particular reason this buddy of yours is keeping track."

The trooper smiled. "Well, detective, I'll put it this way. Not much happens in his jurisdiction. When he's not chasing speeders on the interstate, there's not a whole lot for him to do."

"Can you tell me your buddy's name?"

"It's all there on that paper." He smiled again and pointed toward the exit. "You ought to try Tony's. It's that truck stop south of the ramp. Not exactly fine dining, but they have coffee as good as anything you'll find over there in Starbuck-ville where you come from." With a wink, the trooper headed back to his car.

Encouraged by the strange encounter, Jim turned to Rafe. "Looks like Henri came through."

"Was there ever any doubt?" The other detective smiled back at him.

Jim's responding smile was only half-hearted. Doubt would continue to haunt him until his quarry was found, and his missing friend returned home.

Blair opened his eyes to a white, sterile room and wondered what had happened to land him in a hospital bed. Expecting to find Jim seated beside him, his gaze traversed the small room only to find it empty. It was not just empty of friends, it was empty of comfort. There were no chairs to encourage visitors, no windows to let in the sun, no flowers, no pictures. There was nothing but white paint and steel tables.

As he tried to sit up, feeling his grogginess ebbing away, he realized he was not even in a hospital bed. It was more like a dentist's chair. And he was tightly strapped into it, rendering him helpless. A moment of panic faded into queasiness. He was still wearing his own muddy clothes.

Blair's memory of the encounter in the woods came rushing back in an instant. _Maybe to save your life_ , he remembered the old man saying before leading Blair into the woods and ultimately to his current predicament. Had the old man really intended the opposite, leading him instead toward another David Lash? No, that just did not feel right. The old man had been succinct but sincere.

 _Then why didn't he help Blair when he really needed it_? No, that didn't feel right either. The man was old and alone. What could he have done against five ninjas? Okay, so maybe they weren't ninjas, but they might as well have been. Blair had had no chance against them, whoever or whatever they were.

"Welcome to your new life, Mr. Sandburg," A man's voice said mechanically, as though over a loudspeaker.

"What? What new life?" He shot back, fighting hard against his restraints.

"Relax, my boy. Those are just temporary. We don't want you hurting yourself."

"What are you talking about? Who are you?"

"All things in time. For now I would suggest that you try some of your own meditative exercises to calm yourself. Needles are a lot less painful when your muscles are relaxed."

 _Needles_? Blair frantically looked around him until a dark-haired man in a white lab coat moved into view. The man's face was half-covered with a surgical mask, and his eyes were careful to avoid Blair's.

"Who are you?" Blair said toward the distant, dark gaze.

Instead of answering, the man began to prepare a syringe filled with a clear liquid.

"What is this place? What am I doing here?"

Still there was no answer as someone else who remained out of sight behind the chair rubbed alcohol onto Blair's arm.

"Would one of you please answer me? What's going on here? What are you doing?" Yet Blair might as well have been speaking to the walls.

A moment later, the needle was plunged into his arm. And then the silent strangers left him alone. He could only imagine what effects might be forthcoming.

~8~

Phoning the number that had been provided to Jim, Rafe contacted Colorado State Trooper Brian Gibson at his home.

"Trooper Gibson?" Rafe said to the man who answered.

"Who's asking?"

"I'm Detective Rafe of the Cascade, Washington PD. I was given your name-"

"And Jim Ellison?"

Rafe glanced at Jim. "He's here."

"We need to talk."

"Yes. We do." Rafe answered cautiously.

One hour later, after following the directions provided to them, the detectives arrived at a small house nestled deep in the trees at the end of a long, gravel driveway. Rafe approached the front door, and then waited for Jim to position himself at a protective angle behind him. They were both keenly aware this could be a set up. At Jim's nod, Rafe knocked.

"Trooper Gibson?" He called out.

The door opened slowly to reveal a man with sandy blonde hair and sharp, hazel eyes. He seemed to be employing his own degree of caution. "Gentlemen," He nodded. "If you don't mind, I'd like to see some identification."

Although Trooper Gibson was not in uniform, clad instead in faded jeans and a green flannel shirt, his police training was evident. Rafe could not help but notice the man's tense posture, so similar to Jim's. The off-duty trooper did seem to relax after seeing the detectives' badges and photo ID's, yet he clearly remained alert as he invited the men into his home.

"Can't be too careful," He explained, opening the door wider to admit them.

"No," Jim answered, holding Gibson in his steely gaze as he crossed the threshold. "You can't."

"You might as well have a seat," Gibson offered as he closed the door behind them. "There's a lot of things you need to know."

"What sort of things?" Jim pressed.

Rafe noticed that Jim seemed off, somehow. His eyes were not focused on the state trooper as he spoke. Instead he stared into the hallway to the right of the door. Rafe tried to follow the other detective's gaze, but the dark hallway appeared to be empty.

"First," Gibson gestured toward a sofa in his living room, further encouraging his visitors to sit. "I have someone you need to meet."

As though on cue, an old man with gray stubble and a tattered navy pea-coat stepped out from the shadows of the hallway Rafe had previously thought to be empty.

"This is George McGuire," Gibson said.

"Bud," The old man quickly corrected.

"Bud. Yes, of course. He says he knows a friend of yours. Blair Sandburg?"

Rafe watched Jim stiffen.

"Where is Sandburg?" Jim asked tersely.

The trooper gave a slight shake of his head and ran a hand through his hair. "Now you see that's one of those things I said you need to know."

"I'm sorry, Blair." Julie whispered.

Blair had not imagined it. Or had he? The sound did not come from a dream. He had not been dozing. Although he had yet to discover any way out of his bindings and then out of this horrible room, he was a long way from giving up the fight. He had been injected with god-knew-what more times than he could count. Fortunately, presumably to avoid collapsing a vein, the most recent injections were being administered via an intravenous feed now taped to his wrist. Unfortunately, whatever they were giving him remained a frightening mystery.

"You don't deserve this," She continued softly.

"Julie?" Oddly, though he felt the word leave his throat as a whisper, it sounded like a shout to his ears.

"Shhh," Julie answered. "Don't answer me, or they'll start to suspect."

"Suspect what?"

"Shhh. Don't speak. I can't promise to get you out of here. I don't know who I can trust anymore. But I promise you I'll do everything I can."

Scanning the room as he tried to comply with her warnings against speaking, Blair found himself discovering things he had not noticed before. Now, for the first time, he saw a window at the far end of the room. Julie was standing behind the glass.

"I knew it was wrong to involve you."

How could he hear her whispering from so far away?

"I hoped Bud could help you get back." She jumped, as though startled, and glanced to her right. "I have to go. But I have to ask you to do one thing for me. When they ask, tell them you forced me to let you out of the car. You gave me no choice. You grabbed the wheel and threatened to drive us into a ditch. I know you don't understand yet, but it's important. Please."

And then she walked away, leaving him confused, and, once again, very much alone.

~9~

"Not used to being around people," The old man explained to Jim and Rafe. "Spent most of my life out in the Atlantic. Fisherman." He shook his head. "Nice and quiet. And the air's clean out there. Too many people fouls it up."

"Mr. McGuire," Jim pressed.

"Bud," The other insisted.

Though Jim took a deep breath, Rafe noticed it did nothing to stop his obvious tension from further tightening the muscles in his jaw. Still, Jim politely gave a brief nod to acknowledge the old man's request before continuing.

"Bud," He said, "you need to tell us what you know about Blair."

Bud met Jim's cold stare for a long moment, and Rafe could swear the air grew thicker around them. It almost seemed as though the two men were polar opposites, two magnets being forced toward one another despite an intrinsic need for separation, repellent energies creating an ever expanding bubble. Rafe could feel that bubble reaching out to him. A glance toward Trooper Gibson showed that he too had grown uncomfortable.

"Thought he was just another drifter," Bud finally answered, turning his gaze inward. "A hitchhiker going nowhere. He came to the rest stop. Was wet. Tired. And persistent. I decided to let him in. Don't know why. uess he just seemed like an okay sort."

Bud's gaze sought Jim's once more. "He told me a story. About sentinels."

Silence again. Jim's jaw twitched.

"When I heard a copter," Bud went on, "I figured they were coming for him."

"Who are _they_?"

Bud drew a long breath. "Him. Jonathon Dupris."

"Dupris heads GXI Biotech," Trooper Gibson explained. "It's an affiliate company to Bentley Corporation, the company that used to operate the old paper mill in Weaver's Creek. After Bentley closed the mill a few years ago, they effectively killed the town."

Gibson aimed his next words directly at Bud. "There's no evidence to suggest GXI has anything at all to do with that old mill."

"You keep waiting for your evidence," Bud spat back. "I've had enough of waiting."

Holding up a hand to mollify the old man's anger, Gibson continued. "I know, I know. What you saw the other night proves we can't wait any longer, whether or not I can convince my captain."

"Okay, gentlemen," Jim jumped in, "I've had enough of waiting, too. Tell me where Blair Sandburg is."

"Bud here saw him get taken away by men in black," Gibson said. "Sounds like black ops, all the way, complete with night-vision goggles. Believe me, Detective, there is nothing going on anywhere near here pros like that would be involved in. The only plausible answer is that Bud's been right all along. Something's going on over at the old mill."

"What could it possibly have to do with Sandburg?"

The state trooper gave a slight shake of his head as he blew out a rush of air. "Bud insists GXI Biotech is running some sort of bio testing at the old mill. He thinks they nabbed your friend because he fits in somehow with their testing."

"What tests?"

"Sentinels," Bud said flatly. "Super senses."

Jim's eyes went cold. "And how exactly did you come by all of this information?"

"My son. He worked for GXI. That's what he was working on before he disappeared."

Drained by his futile attempts to free himself, Blair dozed.

"We can't keep pushing these chemicals into him," A man said from somewhere in the corner of Blair's mind. "If you want to see reliable results, we have to slow it down."

"No," Another man barked. "We've been off federal radar up until now. But too many people are starting to ask questions. We have to shut it down, and I will not do that without completing the tests."

That second man's voice was familiar. Where had Blair heard it before?

"Whatever results we get will be skewed. We won't be able to rely on them at all," The first man said.

"It doesn't matter. All we need to show is that the serums work and-."

"That they work? Of course they work. We already know that. What we don't know enough about are the proper dosages or the potential side effects. We could be giving him too much, too quickly. What happens if there's a spike somewhere? How will the brain adjust, or will it even be able to adjust?"

"Fool. That's why I insisted on this subject. If he's as good as his book suggests, he should be able to talk himself through any spikes. And you need to be there to record exactly how he manages it."

"He admitted the book was fiction."

"You and I both know why he came forward with that bullcrap. But it won't matter. When he realizes he has nothing left to protect, and nothing left to go back to, he'll accept what we offer him. Now come on, McGuire. We've had this conversation too many times already. If you keep complaining like this, you know what I'll have to do."

The first man did not reply.

"Be a good son and finish this, Dr. McGuire. Then you and your mother can go off and start a brand new life anywhere you choose. I'm not a total ogre, after all. I do pay handsome bonuses."

... _A brand new life_. The voice suddenly became chillingly recognizable. _Welcome to your new life,_ that voice had told Blair when he had first awakened here.

Blair's weariness evaporated. In an instant he was as awake and alert as ever, maybe even more so. He listened to footsteps approaching him and steeled himself for another shot. But the footsteps were taking too long. Surely the room was not _that_ large? It seemed impossible to imagine, yet the increasing volume indicated that a person was continuing to approach. In fact, it was getting too loud. Blair wanted to cover his ears as the pounding began to tear into his skull. He nearly screamed when he heard an amplified click followed by the power drill creak of some fee-fi-fo-fum giant's gargantuan door.

And then Blair did scream at the resounding bang of steel on steel as that door slammed shut.

~10~

Captain Simon Banks scanned the busy shopping mall in the heart of Cascade. Filled with young mothers and baby strollers on a mid-week afternoon, it was an unlikely place for a meet. Logic told him that was precisely why Marconin had chosen it. In his heart however, Simon did not like it at all. If either he or Marconin had managed to overlook a tail, this was the worst possible place for anything bad to go down. Then again, even a rogue agent might prefer to avoid the kind of publicity trouble in a place like this could cause.

Simon ordered a cup of coffee from a donut shop in the food court, grabbed a table in the crowded center, and watched for Marconin. When the agent appeared minutes later, Simon was surprised to see him appear completely out of character. Shed of his typical dark suit, Marconin was dressed instead in faded jeans and a gray flannel shirt.

"Taking a vacation, Marconin?" Simon asked by way of a greeting.

"I hear Boston's nice this time of year," The agent said with a smile that further put the captain ill at ease.

"Boston?"

"I thought I might visit a friend of mine. She works for Jonathon Dupris, head of GXI Biotech out there. Ever hear of it?"

Simon considered the question for a moment. "Pharmaceutical company, isn't it?"

Marconin nodded. "One of the biggest. So big, they can't keep animal activists off their backs. Their labs are constantly getting targeted. Matter of fact, they made headlines a little over a year ago when a group of activists accused them of unnecessary tests they said amounted to cruel and unusual punishment for the lab rats."

Simon snickered. "What else is new?"

"They were right," Marconin's tone was serious. "GXI was testing drugs that heightened the animals' senses so much they literally couldn't stand it. FDA shut them down over the sharp objections of one of the lead doctors in the study, a Dr. McGuire. He said their aim was to help people who've lost certain senses due to illness or injury, and that autistic children who are extra-sensitive to touch could also benefit through some sort of reversal."

Simon's interest was piquing. "And what is Dr. McGuire doing now?"

"Strangely enough, Dr. McGuire doesn't seem to exist anymore. Other than those newspaper headlines, he seems to have been completely erased."

Mosquitoes. There must have been a million of them swarming over Blair. He tried to swat them away, but he could not move. He could do nothing to combat their stings as they drained his wrists, his ankles, his shoulders, his chest. They tickled his nose and flitted past his ears, taunting him with their constant buzzing. Blair was sure he could even taste them; his tongue felt swollen, coated thickly with something he could not identify. Or maybe it wasn't the mosquitoes at all. If death truly had a taste, then perhaps this was it.

Blair coughed, sputtering uselessly against the tang of captivity. The sound was a thunderhead, reverberating in his ears as lightening shot through his temples. His throat felt charred. Still the taste lingered. Still the mosquitoes persisted.

Yet the sound changed pitch.

"He's coming around."

The buzzing took on the tones of a tenor, giving voice to words that began to inspire others. Soon those million mosquitoes became a million voices.

" _Dinner's ready_..."

" _Why didn't you call me? You said you were going to_..."

" _Tonight's winning numbers are 8, 13, 22_..."

A child screamed. " _I told you no candy_ ," Her mother scolded.

Who were all these people? Why wouldn't they just go away and leave Blair alone?

" _Tequila?_ _Come on, you guys can't be serious_..."

Whoever they were, they were getting louder, or they were getting closer. Blair needed to shield his ears, but his wrists were held tight by straps that started to feel as though they were on fire, searing his skin.

" _Fifty bucks, man. Fifty bucks says you won't eat the worm_..."

Kids. Teenagers boozing it up on a Friday night. Blair remembered Tommy Lambert, the freshman who died after a frat party. Alcohol poisoning was killing more kids every year. Why won't they listen? Blair wanted to tell them to stop. He wanted to warn them, but for some reason he could not seem to speak.

 _"If Blair's inside, I'm getting him out tonight."_

Jim? Was that Jim?

 _"I told you, Detective. Dupris has an army in there. What good can we do? We both told our captains what's going on here. They'll have no choice but to send help."_

That wasn't Jim. Who was it? Who's Dupris?

Someone sniffed. _"Like you had no choice when I told you?"_

Was that the old man? The one in the rest stop?

 _"No,"_ The old man continued, _"they'll have a choice. And it won't be the one you want."_

 _"You know he's right, Gibson,"_ Jim said. Blair was sure that was Jim.

 _"But it won't be for lack of trying."_ Jim, again. Yes, that was definitely Jim.

"Jim?" He tried to call out, but his throat was too dry.

 _"If Dupris is as well connected as Simon said he is,"_ Jim went on, _"I'm not sure how much either one of our captains will be able to accomplish, whether or not mine has a connection in the FBI. It'll be all about red tape and politics. Blair won't stand a chance. Even if they do come through, it might be too late. I can't take that risk."_

"Jim?" Blair tried again. He opened his eyes to a blinding light framing the shadow of a man standing in front of him. "Jim?" He repeated, squinting into the glare.

"Mr. Sandburg? Can you hear me?" The voice was different. It was stronger, louder than the three who had been speaking moments before. "Yes, that's good. Now just relax. I promise you'll feel much better."

A hand reached out, touching Blair's shoulder. Though the shadow's approach appeared to be slow and cautious, the touch fell hard upon him, landing like a blow that seemed to shatter bone.

Blair tensed, gritting his teeth against the pain. The groan he could not hold back sounded primal, inhuman. Could it even have come from him?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sandburg. Your senses are spiking. But you should be able to control that. Just think about your training."

"Training?" Blair asked, though the word came out as little more than a whisper.

"Your sentinel training, Mr. Sandburg. You are a sentinel now, too. You need to find a way to guide yourself."

~11~

When Colorado State Trooper Brian Gibson drove his old, Chevy pick-up into the ghost town of Weaver's Creek, he caught the kids there off guard.

"Weaver's Creek should be renamed 'Party Central,'" Gibson had told Jim and Rafe earlier in the evening. "Kids from Putnam Township are always hanging out there. Makes sense. They have the whole town to themselves. I'd do it too, if I was their age. Not much goes on around here."

"What about Dupris's men?" Jim had asked. "I thought you said they still keep the area under pretty tight control."

"They do. But as long as the kids don't start snooping around the mill, they leave 'em alone."

"So what happens when the kids do snoop around the mill?" Rafe had asked then.

Gibson smiled. "All hell breaks loose."

Trooper Gibson was usually the only law Weaver's Creek saw anymore. The kids who partied there were used to him flying into town with his siren wailing and the lights flashing on top of his patrol car. He would jump out in full uniform and try to catch the slowest - which was usually the drunkest - of the group of teenagers as they scattered into abandoned buildings and empty alleys. It had become a game for all of them, Gibson included. But tonight Gibson had changed the rules, and the kids were curious to learn why.

They watched as he stepped out of his truck looking like Joe Citizen rather than Joe Cop, his jeans providing for a sort of common ground.

"Hey, Gary. Mike," Gibson waved to the group's traditional leaders. "Think you boys might be interested in making a little noise tonight?"

A moment later, Jim Ellison pulled up behind the truck. When he and Rafe joined Gibson, the boys seemed wary, ready to scatter. Yet old Bud McGuire diminished the threat posed by his companions, and the boys remained. Clearly, they wanted to hear what Gibson had to say.

Julie Stalwort watched from an upper walkway as Jonathon Dupris called his son, Scott out of the Quiet Room. A small, closet-sized space with thick, steel walls and little ventilation, the Quiet Room was where Scott went whenever he needed to get away from what his father called "sensory overload," a condition Blair Sandburg described in his supposedly fictional book about sentinels.

It had become obvious as soon as Julie had seen that book that Scott, too, was a sentinel. Clearly, both he and his father had known that fact for a long time, though they had never been able to put a name to it until the Sandburg scandal brought it to the public eye. Julie was partly grateful for Sandburg's unintentional intervention, as it motivated Dupris to expedite his plans. Expediting meant cutting corners which led to the kind of small mistakes that had helped Julie gather the evidence she needed.

Another part of her could not help but regret reeling Blair in as she did.

"Something's wrong," Dupris told his son as the door swung open. "Sandburg is not achieving control."

Scott took a deep breath and smiled. "Put him in here for a while. It would help clear his senses."

"Don't be a fool. How are we going to monitor him in there? Now come with me. We have work to do."

Julie watched them disappear down the corridor, and then cautiously stepped into the now vacant Quiet Room. Selected for its ability to lock sound out, the room was also effective at locking sound in, and Julie knew it was the safest place in the entire building to talk without risk of being overheard. Even Scott's sensitive ears should not be able to pick up what she said. Surprised to find that her cell phone was actually able to find a signal when she first visited the room, Julie was finally ready to take advantage of that apparent anomaly.

"1-4-2-7-7. Code 9," she said to the voice that answered. "Level 3."

Then she ended that call and dialed another number. "Captain Simon Banks, please," She said. "Captain Banks? This is Julie Stalwort. I need you to get a message to Jim Ellison for me. Just tell him Weaver's Creek, Colorado. Bentley Paper Mill."

She clicked off again, not allowing for a reply. And then, taking a deep breath of the stale air, she opened the heavy door.

"Game's over, Ms. Stalwort," Scott Dupris greeted her. "Or whoever you really are."

Blair could not breathe. The air was wrong. He gagged with nearly every inhalation, and seemed to spend more time coughing than actually filling his lungs. A pungent stench of rot made him feel as though he was drowning in the foul soup at the bottom of a landfill.

"Relax, Mr. Sandburg," Someone screamed into his ear. "You should be able to filter out whatever it is that's distressing you, but until you get better control this should help."

An oxygen mask was pressed against his nose and mouth. Though it felt like razor blades pressing down on his skin, he was grateful for the hope of relief it offered. Greedily sucking in the fresh air, he was frustrated to find he could still smell the offending odors, yet they had at least been reduced enough to allow him to concentrate on breathing without choking.

 _"Filter out whatever it is that's distressing you."_

 _"Filter it out, Jim,"_ Blair had often instructed his partner. But that was not the answer this time. He could not just filter something out when there was so much of it to sort through. He had to find a way to dial the stench down. _"Try to envision a dial, Jim. Now dial it down, just like you would to turn down the temperature on a thermostat."_

 _Dial it down,_ he told himself. _Dial it down._ He could see the dial. He could watch it moving, turning; he could see the numbers going down. But the smells did not change.

 _"You are a sentinel now,"_ the older man had told him.

If that was true, why wasn't it working? _"Dial it down, Jim,"_ he had prompted so often. But he was not Jim.

 _"You need to find a way to guide yourself."_

 _That's just it,_ Blair realized. _I'm a guide, not a sentinel. I am not a sentinel. This is not natural._

He knew then with horrifying certainty that no amount of guiding would help him through these overwhelming sensory spikes.

~12~

"Now remember," Gibson told his young recruits, "you're just having a little drag race up to the mill. Nothing fancy, and no chicken. And I repeat, if you have had even one swig of that tequila, you can ride shotgun, but you let somebody else do the driving. Is that understood?"

Mike Granger, a blonde, blue-eyed high school senior aiming for a career in the NFL, laughed and shook his head, shrugging to his friends. "Are you high, Gibby? What's with you all of a sudden asking us to drag race? You're always bitching to us about shit like that."

Gibson smiled back at him. "Well, Mike, it's like this. Under normal circumstances I would most certainly tell you to both follow the rules of the road and to stay away from the mill. But these are not normal circumstances. My friends here and I have some business up there, and we just need a little diversion to help us out."

"Cop business?" Asked Gary Baker. Gary, the daredevil of the group, was a dark-haired kid who was already looking into joining the Marines. "They got a Meth lab going on up there, don't they? I knew it, man. Let's nail their asses."

"It's our business, Gary, not yours. You got that? It doesn't matter to none of you what's going on up there or what we have to do with it. Now I am asking you as friends to help me out here. When security starts after you, you high-tail it outta there. All we want you to do is distract them. Do not antagonize them. Do not let them touch you. You got that?"

"What's with this 'friends' shit all of a sudden?" Mike complained. "You almost got me kicked off the team last month."

"You drink like you did that night and your career will never survive past high-school, Mike. If I want to see you on Monday Night Football in a few years, I've got to help set you up on the right foot. It's my job, both as a cop and as a friend." He turned his attention to the rest of the kids. "Now all I'm asking all of you to do is to have a little fun for free. You'll get no trouble from me for once. But you will get trouble from those goons at the mill. Just keep your eyes open and haul ass when you see them coming. Above all, be careful. I do not want to have to scrape any of you up off the road after this."

"Hey, no problem Gibby," Gary shouted above the hoots and laughter of his friends. "We've got your back, dude!"

"Listen up." Jim Ellison's sudden command effectively silenced the enthusiastic teens. "This is not a game. I would never have agreed to involve any of you if it weren't for the fact that someone's life may be at stake. Trooper Gibson says he's giving you the opportunity to have some fun. I'm telling you something else. Make some noise. Distract the mill's security team. But remember it will not be a game to them."

Jim approached Gary, the fledging Marine, and met the boy's gaze with his own cold, hard glare. "You are not a cop, and you do not have his back. Is that understood?"

The boy did not flinch. Nor did he make any attempt to break contact. Gary Baker might well have chosen the right career. But he was not a Marine yet. Jim Ellison could only pray the kid did not try to be a hero tonight.

"We're ending it," Dupris told his son after hearing Dr. McGuire's latest report.

"It's too early," Scott replied.

"We no longer have a choice in the matter. Sandburg was a mistake. His disappearance caused ripples we can no longer contain. If that isn't enough to concern you, remember that you have already discovered one spy in our midst. There could very well be others." The elder Dupris paused, shaking his head. "And the tests I'm afraid have been an absolute failure."

Scott shrugged and gave his father a comfortable smile. "Not completely. We proved we can build sentinels. That's enough to keep our buyers happy."

"An army of useless, sniveling invalids is not what they're looking for."

"It'll only be a matter of time before we devise methods for instilling control. Patience, father. We didn't get to this point overnight."

"Well, we do need to evacuate overnight. Tonight. The helicopter's prepping now."

"And our guests?"

"We proceed with our evacuation plans. All of them."

"Dr. McGuire?"

"He's served his purpose. Give him the bonus he has coming."

"And his mother?"

"Well, of course. What else? Now go on, get to work. I'll get the papers together and meet you at the heliport in thirty minutes. Will that give you enough time?"

Scott's smile widened. "Plenty," he replied.

~13~

"Relax, Mr. Sandburg. Please." Dr. McGuire dared not touch the tense, young man thrashing about in the chair before him. Every contact, even the most benign, seemed to result in excruciating pain. "It was not supposed to happen like this," The doctor confided to his colleague, though his eyes never left Blair. "I told Mr. Dupris not to go so far so fast. I should never have let him talk me into this."

"Why don't you just give him a sedative?"

Shocked by Dr. Fitzsimmons' suggestion, McGuire shot him a fierce look. "Are you out of your mind? We have no idea what sort of reaction that might have with everything we've already administered."

"What does it matter? The subject has already outlived his usefulness."

"What are you saying?"

Now it was Fitzsimmons' turn to be surprised. "You didn't think Dupris would actually just let him go after all this, did you?"

Horrified, McGuire backed into a chair and awkwardly sat down. "What have we done?" He whispered.

Fitzsimmons, a tired, balding, lifelong bachelor, smiled. "Well, we proved we can increase sensory perception. That should entitle us to at least some of that bonus Dupris has been promising. I don't know what you might have in mind, but I'm thinking the Riviera myself."

"Is that right, Doc?" Scott Dupris said as he stepped into the room with a stout, elderly woman in tow. "I'm thinking you're thinking a little too lofty, myself. Matter of fact," He pushed the woman toward McGuire, revealing the semi-automatic he had pointed at Fitzsimmons. "You're going to have to just make do with this lab."

"What are you doing?" Fitzsimmons asked.

"What does it look like? We're pulling up stakes. Leaving some ballast behind."

"Ballast?" Fitzsimmons was furious. "Ballast? You wouldn't have gotten anywhere without us. I signed up to this deal to fund my retirement. You have no right to-"

"Give me a break, Doc," Scott shook his head, laughing. "Who do think is holding the cards, here? And, in this case, the gun."

"I demand to see Mr.-"

"Demand? You don't demand anything from me. You got that?" Scott pushed his weapon against Fitzsimmons chest.

"Wha... What is this?" Fitzsimmons said shakily. "You ... you can't do this."

The younger Dupris's face hardened beneath a determined smile. He slowly backed away, his cold eyes never straying from the doctor's baffled gaze.

Dr. Jeffrey McGuire had seen that look before. Nearly one year ago, on the night when McGuire had refused to join the elder Dupris's secret project, Scott had turned that look upon him. Two hours later, McGuire and his mother had become virtual prisoners of the Dupris' - McGuire to provide them with his expertise, his mother to ensure his ongoing cooperation. Now, seeing that grim and dangerous visage once again, McGuire cautiously placed himself between Scott and his mother, though he knew the action would do little to truly keep her out of harm's way. Nor would she appreciate it.

"What ... what are you going to do?" Fitzsimmons asked. "You can't... You can't just ... just leave us here."

As McGuire watched in horror, Scott opened fire. A short burst of staccato explosions echoed around the steel walls of the lab, eliciting an agonized cry from Blair Sandburg while Fitzsimmons' chest exploded into a bloody pulp. When it was over, even McGuire's ears throbbed in pain. _What could that noise have done to a sentinel?_ Tearing his gaze away from the mess that remained of Dr. Fitzsimmons, a mess that made it obvious nothing could be done to save him, McGuire glanced at Scott. Somehow, at that moment, scientific curiosity stalled McGuire's fear of the man. Scott was wearing ear plugs.

How then could their test subject have fared? Not well. One look revealed that Sandburg had fallen unconscious. McGuire could only hope this latest and most severe strain on Sandburg's senses had not been enough to still his heart completely.

"Dr. McGuire?" Scott's voice broke into McGuire's thoughts, pulling him back to the terror of the moment. "Do you have any demands?"

"No," He said voicelessly. Then, "No," McGuire said again, forcing sound into the word. He pushed his mother behind him once more, trying to hold back the fury he could feel growing within her.

"Good." Scott headed toward the door. "Now it's going to get hot in here real soon," He said casually. "But if you're lucky, the smoke will get you first."

The woman glared at him. "Why you little-"

McGuire shushed his mother and tightened his grip.

"That's okay, Doc," Scott said. "You know, I'm going to miss that little spitfire." And then he was gone.

~14~

From the cover of a copse of pine trees, Jim Ellison studied the rooftop of the old Bentley paper mill where a helicopter was being prepped for takeoff.

"Looks like someone's getting out of Dodge," Trooper Gibson said beside him. "You don't think they know what we're planning?"

Ellison cocked his head. "If they did, do you really think the four of us would be enough to scare them off? No, something else is up."

"Maybe we should call it off. Wait for reinforcements."

"Dupris," Bud interrupted.

Jim Ellison followed the old man's gaze back to the helicopter. Two men were beginning to board.

"Both of 'em," Bud continued. "Jonathon Dupris and his son, Scott."

"Could be," Rafe started. "But you can't know that for sure. Might be couriers for all we can tell from here."

"No. No courier," Bud answered. "It's them, sure as I'm here."

"But how-"

Gibson put a hand to Rafe's shoulder. With a gentle shake of his head he wordlessly told the detective, _'don't go there.'_

"Sons of bitches stole my family," Bud said as he pushed past Jim.

Ellison grabbed him. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Stop the bastards."

"That was not the plan. We go in for Sandburg and your family. Then and only then do we even consider other options."

"You think I'm going to just let them fly out of here?"

Ellison met his glare.

"You have to," Rafe answered instead. "They already are."

Bud turned his head to see the helicopter beginning to rise. "Sons of bitches," He repeated, this time with a catch in his voice.

"They'll pay," Jim Ellison said then. "But for right now, I just need you to focus on your wife, your son and my friend. Can you do that?"

Bud shot Jim a fierce look. "Course I can. It's why I'm here, isn't it?"

"Good." Jim released his tight grip. "That's good," He repeated as he studied the old man's reaction, concerned about what Bud might do. When Bud simply watched the helicopter disappear into the night sky, Jim felt encouraged to continue. "Now we need to figure out exactly where in this complex our people are being held. If your senses are as strong as you said they were, can you listen from here to what's going on inside?"

"How can he-" Rafe complained before Bud interrupted him and Gibson once again quieted him.

"'Course I can," Bud replied.

"Then let's get started."

"There," Bud said after several minutes.

Jim nodded but raised his hand in a call for continued quiet. He'd heard it too, a woman and a man conversing in anxious tones. What he had not heard yet was anything from Sandburg.

 _"His pulse is weak,"_ the man's voice said. _"Breathing is shallow. This man needs real medical attention. He is simply not going to be able to walk out of here on his own."_

 _"Then we find a way to carry him,"_ The woman replied stubbornly.

 _"How can we-"_

Shouts from a group of teenagers disrupted Jim's hearing. He cringed as their voices were interjected over the sounds coming from inside the complex.

 _"Gentlemen, start your engines."_

 _"Hoo-ah!"_

As they began to rev their engines, their voices blended into a hodge-podge of laughter and cries of excitement.

"Jim," Rafe grabbed his arm. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Just..." He shook his head clear. _Filter it out,_ He could imagine Blair advising him. _Filter it out._

Jim tried again. He carefully found his way past the disruption. Now he heard new voices coming from inside. Men's voices.

 _"Mick, Ignite those boxes, over there,"_ One man said. _"Dusty, you take the laundry room. I want to see Armageddon in here by the time it reaches those chemical bins, but we've got to be long gone by then. Let's go people. Move."_

"Fire," Jim said out loud.

"What?" Rafe asked.

"They're going to burn the place down. Gibson, you've got to get to those kids. Stop them. I don't want them driving into an inferno."

"You sure about that?" Trooper Gibson questioned.

"He's sure," Bud replied. "You stop those kids, Gibby. And we've got to get inside before it's too late."

"No." Jim put a hand against Bud's chest. "You stay out here. The stakes have just changed. I am not going to take responsibility for you in there under these circumstances."

"Don't have to. I take responsibility for myself."

"You are a civilian. If you-"

"What do you know about me, Detective? You know squat. Let me tell you. I am old enough to have had two careers. My first was in the Coast Guard. I am no stranger to fire rescues. And I am not sitting out here tonight when I know I'm needed in there."

Jim studied the man, impressed both by his words and by the fact that they had been strung together into the longest speech Bud McGuire had made in the short time they had known one another. If those words were true, Bud's experience clearly enabled him to face the risks inside. Yet his age remained a concern. Jim shook his head.

"And if you're going to complain next about my age," Bud said before Jim even opened his mouth, "you can forget that, too. My heart is in perfect shape, and I can still run when I need to."

Jim could not help but smile. "You'd better be right about all that, Bud," He said patting the old man on the shoulder before cautiously stepping out of the woods to lead his _team_ toward the building.

~15~

"Hooo-ahhh," Gary shouted as he brought his souped-up T-Bird to a screeching halt at the intersection between Main Street and Berkeley Drive, leaving a long trail of black tire marks behind him.

"Gary Baker," His friend, Mike Granger shouted back at him as the racers stepped out of their cars for an impromptu celebration. "You have just won the first leg of the State Police sanctioned Save-A-Cop drag race. What are you going to do next?"

"Well I'm not going to Disney World, dude!"

After a series of high-fives, someone passed Mike the bottle of tequila. "Hey, what's this about?" He asked seriously.

"Party time, man. What else?" Robbie Dobrowski shouted back.

Using all the muscle that had already caught the eye of college recruiters, Mike threw the bottle for a line drive, sending it crashing into the woods. "Not anymore, it's not. This is serious. We drink, it's over. Got that? You, my friend are now officially sidelined. Anyone else think this is just a game?"

No one replied.

"Good. Now lets line up for the main event."

Ten minutes later, five cars piled full with teenagers got into position along Bentley Drive, aiming toward the old mill. As a small group of spectators lined up along the side of the road, Steve Nichols waved his jacket over his head. "And on my mark," He shouted. After a few seconds he dropped the makeshift flag, signaling the race to begin.

Gary easily held the lead as the other cars jockeyed around for position behind him. Stealing glances in his rearview and side mirrors to gauge his competition, he kept his primary focus forward. Soon the lights from the mill came into view. He was momentarily confused by the nature of those on the east side of the main building. Then he realized what the orange hue and flickering nature of those lights meant. Fire.

"Shit."

Everything seemed to happen at once. In his peripheral vision, Gary spotted a new car running at him headlong from across an open field. The vehicle was upon him in an instant, swerving at the last second to avoid impact. Horns blared and lights flashed until Gary recognized it was Trooper Gibson. Gibby was apparently very eager to stop the race he himself had sanctioned. Yet before either Gary or his friends could even let their minds begin to process the twist, an explosion up ahead ignited the night sky.

Gary hit his brakes hard to avoid flying headlong into any rocketing debris, but the cars behind him were not as quick on the draw. Mark Weaver's Mustang slammed hard into his rear fender, and David Russell's Grand Am barreled into the Mustang. Only Mike's Camaro and Ricky Johnson's Impala were spared.

"What the hell..." Gary muttered as he climbed out of his crumpled car.

"You all right, son?" Gibby asked, looking stunned himself though he, too, had managed to avoid the pile-up.

"Yeah," Gary answered. "Mark?" He called out. "Dave?"

After everyone checked in, sounding shaken but unhurt, Gary turned on Trooper Gibson. "What the hell was that all about?"

"I was trying to warn you about that." He pointed with his head toward the mill. "I was hoping I could stop you before ... well, before any real harm could come to you. Sorry about the cars, boys. But that _is_ what I've tried to tell you could happen when you drag race."

"I mean _that_ ," Gary said then. "The fire. The explosion. What's that all about? Did you do it?"

"No, Gary. We did not do that. As a matter of fact, Ellison, Rafe and Bud are all heading in there right now. I hope to god they get out."

"Let's see to it that they do, then." Gary's posture changed as he spoke, his back straightening to emphasize his determination.

"No, Gary. Go home. All of you. Go home. This isn't your fight."

"Are you going in?"

"Yes, I am. Got to." Gibson shrugged, smiling somewhat sheepishly. "It comes with the job."

"If it's your fight, it's our fight, man." Gary refused to back down.

But before Gibson could continue the argument, a deep rumbling caught everyone's attention. All eyes went toward the fire raging ahead of them in time to watch an army of vehicles emerge from the thick smoke.

"Fall back," Gibson warned the teens as four, black Ford Explorers careened toward them. "Head for the trees. Go. Go." Gibson began grabbing kids and pushing them toward the tree-line. "Go on. Get out of here."

"Gibby?" Gary said beside him.

"Move out, Gary. Come on. Game's over, son."

"No, Gibby. Stop for a minute."

The SUV's were almost upon them. "What is it?"

Gary pointed skyward, toward a group of army helicopters moving down toward them.

"What in the hell," Gibson said out loud.

"I was hoping you could tell me," Gary said calmly.

Then the shooting began, with Colorado State Trooper Brian Gibson and high school senior Gary Baker caught right in the middle.

~16~

"Sounds like war," Bud McGuire said to Rafe as Ellison scouted the hallway ahead of them.

"Doesn't sound good," Rafe answered. "That's for sure."

"It is war," Jim said as he rejoined them. "Question is, whose war?"

"Not ours," Bud replied. "At least not yet."

Jim shot him a sly smile. "Now you're getting it. Whatever's happening out there, our goal is in here. Should be right down that hallway, as a matter of fact. Let's move. Remember to stay low, avoid the smoke."

Julie Stalwort could hardly breathe. The air in the Quiet Room was always thick. The faint smell of smoke was making it thicker still. "Oh, shit," She whispered to herself.

Time was running out. She began to wonder whether she would cook to death in this steel trap, or would she suffocate first? Or, perhaps, by some stroke of the luck that had deserted her throughout her life, would her coded call bring help in time? Holding onto that last, best option, she began to pound her fist against the wall beside her. _Three short._ _Three long. Three short._

Hopefully someone other than Scott McGuire would hear her SOS.

Jim had found nothing to prove to him Sandburg was alive, or that he was even here. Other than some conversation about an unconscious young man and the faint sounds of shallow breathing and a weak heartbeat that may or may not be his friend's, he had nothing tangible to go on. Still, he refused to accept that his efforts would prove fruitless. Sandburg was here. Jim simply had to find him.

When he began to hear the almost inaudible sound - even to a sentinel - of an SOS, he allowed his hopes to soar.

"Hear that?" He asked Bud.

The old man nodded. "I do. But Maggie and Jeffrey are down this way. I came here for them. Have to go to them first."

"I know, Bud. You and Rafe get to your family. I'll check this out."

"Jim?"

"It's an SOS, Rafe. Could be Sandburg. I don't know. But someone needs help just up ahead."

Gary saw Trooper Gibson go down. "Gibby," He shouted.

When the trooper did not move, Gary reacted fully on instinct. He grabbed the man in a fireman's hold and made a run for the trees, oblivious to the shower of bullets raining down around him. Once he reached cover and gently laid the trooper down on the ground, his friends gathered around him.

"Jesus," Dave Russell shouted. "Jesus H. Christ. Man, this is crazy. It's insane. What the fuck is going on?"

Gary did not bother to answer. "Someone take care of Gibby. Apply pressure. Don't let him bleed out."

"Jesus," Dave repeated as Mike Granger and Ricky Johnson hurried to heed Gary's command, taking their places at the trooper's side.

"What are you going to do?" Mike asked, ignoring Dave's growing panic.

"Call for help. Gibby's truck is still intact. Radio should work fine."

"Are you crazy?" Ricky shouted back at him. "You'll get killed out there."

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," Dave continued.

"Would someone shut him up, already?" Gary demanded. "Come on. Get it together, people. Whatever's going on out there, it's bigger than Gibby could have realized. If we don't get help fast, he could die. And if that's not enough to get you thinking, it's only a matter of time before someone comes looking for us."

He waited while Robbie Dobrowski, surprisingly sobered up, led Dave deeper into the woods and tried to calm him with soothing words.

"What can I do?" Mark Weaver stepped to the front of the gathered teens.

"Keep a level head. Make sure everyone else keeps a level head. And if I don't get back, get Gibby out of here. Make a break hard and fast, and don't let anyone catch up with you."

"Don't, Gar," Mark pleaded then. "Don't do this. We should all just do like you said, and get out of here."

He shook his head. "Gibby shouldn't be moved unless it's absolutely necessary. Look, we need help. His radio is our best hope."

"Gary?" Mike looked up to him. His right hand was already covered in blood as he pressed a tee shirt against a wound in Gibby's side. "Be careful?"

Gary smiled back at him. "Hell, I was born to do this."

"No, Gar. You weren't."

His smiled weakened. "Ah'll be back," He said in a bad Arnold impersonation. And then he made a break for the truck.

~17~

Jim reached the source of the SOS. It came from the other side of a steel door. When he tried the handle, it held firm, yet he could not see any mechanism that might be responsible.

He had to get inside. Smoke was starting to grow thick in the hallway, and whoever was sending the message was clearly growing weak. The pounding was getting softer, the knocks spaced further apart. Jim knocked back to let whoever was inside know he was there. It was his way of saying 'conserve your strength.'

The SOS stopped mid-way through the next series of beats. He could only hope his message had gotten through. No other possibility was acceptable.

Smoke started to sting his eyes as he studied his surroundings, searching for whatever was holding that door shut. His lungs began to burn. Pulling off his jacket, he held it to his nose, but it did little to help his breathing. He started to cough. His eyes felt raw. He had to get out of the there.

 _"Focus, Jim."_ He could imagine Blair saying beside him. _"Concentrate. You can filter out the smoke if you try hard enough."_

 _I don't know if I can this time, Chief._ But what if it really was Blair inside? Jim had to find the mechanism.

Jim fought for control, desperate to filter out the smoke. He let his eyes dig deeper than before, pushing past the pain, ignoring the burning. And there, he saw something across the hall. He moved closer, tested the latch, followed the sound of a series of clicks to the door behind him. Whether it was an ingenious or a ridiculous trick to deter theft, the bizarrely hidden mechanism worked. He tried the door handle once again. It moved downward with a heavy _clunk_.

The door slid open toward him. And a woman fell across his feet.

Cold rage seethed through him when he discovered he had not found Blair Sandburg after all. Instead, he had come upon Julie Stalwort, the woman responsible for involving his friend in this nightmare. Part of him wanted to leave her there, unconscious and unprotected from the growing fire.

 _"No, Jim. That's not who you are."_ He could hear Blair say to him.

 _How can you be so sure of that?_

 _"You're a protector, not a killer."_

 _I didn't do this to her._

 _"But you're there to help her now. If you leave her, you will be killing her."_

"Damn," Jim said aloud before kneeling beside the prone woman. He had no choice but to try to resuscitate her.

"This is it," Bud told Rafe. He tried the handle, but the door would not budge.

"Can't see a lock of any kind," Rafe said. "Could be it's locked from the inside."

"No. Over there." Bud pointed with his chin to a spot across the hallway.

"What?"

"The latch. Works like a switch."

"How could you know that?"

"Been listening here a long time," Bud answered sadly.

"Listening?" Rafe shook his head. "You and Jim, you really are both sentinels?"

Bud cocked his head by way of a reply.

"Then Sandburg's book... You're saying it's all true."

"Don't know. Haven't seen it. Look, just trip the latch so we can all get out of here."

Rafe did as Bud asked. An instant later, just as he said, Bud was able to ease the door open.

"Mayday, Mayday," Gary shouted into the radio. "Can anyone hear me? Mayday. Officer down. I repeat, officer down. Mayday, Mayday."

 _"This is dispatch 1. Identify yourself."_

"Sherrie? Sherrie Peterson? Sherrie, this is Gary Baker-"

 _"Gary? What are you doing on this radio? This is not a toy, son."_

"Listen to me, Sherrie. This is a real emergency. Trooper Gibson has been shot. Hell, can't you hear it out here? It's like a war's going on."

 _"This better not be a joke, Gary. You could face severe-"_

"Just get the sheriff out here. Get as many people as you can out here. I swear to you, Gibby's been shot."

There was no reply.

"Sherrie? Hello? Are you out there?"

Still nothing.

"Sherrie? Anybody? Mayday, Mayday. Can anyone hear me?"

"It's over, son." This new voice did not come from the radio.

Still clutching the mouthpiece, Gary looked up to see a tall, black man flanked by gun-toting, black clad soldiers, clearly special ops. Gary's hand dropped slowly as he backed himself further into the truck. He should have looked for Gibby's gun. _The glove compartment._ There had to be a spare in the glove compartment. Gary's gaze moved in that direction. When he glimpsed the man reaching into his coat, Gary decided to make a try for it. He dove and punched his hand against the small door, knocking it open.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," The man reached an empty hand out toward him, using his other hand to display a badge. "Relax, son. I'm Captain Simon Banks of the Cascade, Washington PD. I'm here to help you. We received your call on the radio, just like Sherrie did."

His hand hovering over the gun inside the glove compartment, Gary could not help but wonder about the man's honesty.

"It's over, son. We really are here to help."

Gary realized then that the shooting had stopped. He found himself surrounded by an eerie silence.

"Can you show me where Trooper Gibson is? We can airlift him to the hospital."

"Washington?" Gary asked then. "DC?"

"No. The state of Washington."

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to help some friends of mine."

"Detective Ellison?"

Gary watched the man's visage change from compassion to concern. If he was faking, he was a damned good actor.

"Yes. Do you know where he is?" The police captain asked him.

Gary nodded, his hand now moving away from the gun. "They're inside. In the mill."

Captain Banks gazed toward the building. It was almost completely engulfed in flames. "Damn. I sure was hoping you weren't going to say that."

~18~

Bud's reunion with his wife and son was limited to a brief greeting. There would be time enough for hugs later, if they were lucky.

Rafe's reunion with Blair Sandburg was somewhat less terse. "What happened to him?" He asked, shocked by what he saw when he moved to Blair's side.

The younger McGuire did not look away, as a man disappointed in his own actions might do. Yet his eyes were filled with regret. "Biomedical experimentation," He replied. "I take full responsibility."

Rafe shook his head, indicating the man did not answer his question. "What, exactly, is wrong with him?" He tried again.

"Explain later," Bud demanded. "Now we've got to go. And for god's sake get that oxygen tank away from him. It gets any hotter in here it'll be over for all of us."

Bud's son hastily pulled the mask from Blair's face and pushed the tank into a far, rear corner of the room. Almost instantly, Sandburg began coughing uncontrollably.

"Easy, Blair," Rafe put his hand behind his friend's back and tried to lift him into a position more suitable to clearing his lungs. Rafe's touch, however, had an unexpected effect. Blair cried out as though in agony, eliciting an even more extreme fit of coughing.

Dr. McGuire grabbed Rafe's arm and dragged him away from the chair. "We've already tried to move him. He can't stand to be touched right now, no matter how gentle. It won't cause any real, physical damage to his skin or musculature, but his brain processes the event as though he's being beaten and burned, both at once. And he can't move on his own." The doctor sighed, his gaze moving to Sandburg. "I honestly don't know how we can hope to get him out of here."

"What the hell have you done to him?"

"His sensory perceptions have been heightened. Right now his sense of smell and that of touch are most severely affected. Without the oxygen, I'm afraid this smoke will kill him before we can even get him close to an exit."

"Then give him something. Anything. Sedate him at least so we can get him out of here."

The doctor shook his head. "Impossible. He's fading in and out of consciousness as it is. His heart is experiencing a degree of strain a less fit man would never endure. Anything we do, anything at all, could, quite possibly, kill him."

"Get out of here," Jim Ellison's stern voice commanded from the doorway.

Rafe breathed an audible sigh of relief at Ellison's timely arrival. Jim's visage also encouraged him. Even from a distance, Rafe could see rage coloring the other detective's face. The wrath of James Ellison was not something to be taken lightly. Perhaps it might even be enough to get Blair out of his current, precarious situation.

"Jim," Rafe began as Ellison approached, "it's not good."

"I know," The other detective replied softly. "I heard."

"How can we get him out of here without killing him?"

"You let me worry about that. You just get out of here with the others."

"But Jim-"

"Miss Stalwort's in the hallway. Severe smoke inhalation. If you don't get her out of here, she won't make it." Jim's eyes were cold, hard, making it clear that Blair was his only priority. He had done what he would for Julie Stalwort. The rest was up to her, and now, apparently, Rafe.

Though he was ready to accept any responsibility Jim delegated to him, Rafe could not leave without saying something. Blair's odds of getting out of this building alive were clearly slim. And Jim would not leave without his partner, not until and not unless he had exhausted every option. What do you say to someone who may or may not survive the next crucial moments?

He grabbed Jim gently by the arm to draw the other's attention. "Jim?" Still, the only words he could find seemed vastly insufficient. His mouth worked uselessly, until Jim took hold of his arm in response. As a silent nod suddenly became enough, saying what words could not, Rafe smiled sadly. And then he turned away.

~19~

Blair Sandburg wreathed in agony, and Jim's anger was palpable. It was a good thing both Julie Stalwort and Dr. McGuire were out of his sight, because Jim would not have trusted himself to be in the same room with them for much longer. Even the corpse beneath the sheet in the corner, another man Jim understood to have been responsible for Sandburg's suffering, might have become a target for his fury. But there would be time to go a few rounds with someone, any one of his targets later on. Right now, Blair needed him.

"Blair," Jim said softly as he knelt beside his friend, one hand hovering in the air just above Blair's arm. Though instinct seemed to demand that he touch Sandburg in order to bolster the connection he had always had with his guide, he had to force himself to ignore it. Sandburg was not his guide right now. Instead, he was another sentinel, a sentinel out of control, worse than Jim had ever been himself. This time, Jim had to be Blair Sandburg's guide. He could only hope he was up to the task.

"Listen to me, Blair," He continued in a delicate whisper. "Concentrate on my voice. Focus on the sound of my voice. You can do this. I know you can."

Thankfully, the coughing began to subside.

"That's good. You're doing good, buddy."

"J...Jim?" Sandburg's voice was weak and rough. He turned his head in Jim's direction, yet seemed to refuse to open his eyes.

"It's me, Chief. I'm getting you out of here. But I need your help."

"Can't ... can't breathe."

"Yes you can. You just have to use some of those tricks you taught me. Remember the dial idea? Visualize a dial-"

"No," Blair said angrily. The effort proved to be more than he could handle. He started coughing again.

"Easy, buddy. Easy. Focus on my voice."

"Tried ...," Blair began again as he regained a degree of control. "Tried the dial. Can't. Didn't work."

"That's okay. We'll try something else. Can you open your eyes? Look at me, Blair. Can you do that?"

Sandburg struggled to comply, easing his eyelids into mere slits before scrunching them closed once more. "Too bright," He complained. "I'm sorry, Jim. I'm just not ... not as strong as you."

"Don't blame yourself, Chief. None of this is your fault. You are the strongest, most resilient man I know. What you're experiencing now, no one should ever have to experience."

"Sent ... sentinel-"

"No. What they've done to you is not natural. I can't even begin to understand what you're going through. But I've got to get you out of here, Chief. We're running out of time." The smoke was growing thicker, the heat, more intense. "First, I have to get you out of this chair. In order to do that, I have to touch you."

"No, no, no, Jim. Don't. No ... no offense, man," He tried smiling through his pain. "But you can't ... can't touch me."

"I have to, Chief."

Sandburg's heartbeat was rapidly reaching a crescendo. What if one touch was enough to put him over the edge?

"Okay," Jim decided to try another tactic. "I need you to try something else for me, Blair. You know how you said your hand went numb when we were up in the mountains last winter? Remember how cold it was?"

"That's ... that's not helping, Jim."

"Just remember the cold. Remember your hand feeling numb. Imagine that numbness reaching up your arm, to your shoulder."

"You know what happens when ... when the numbness starts wearing off, don't you, Jim?"

"It's not going to wear off. Now stay with me here, Chief. Can you feel that numbness? Concentrate on that numbness. Feel it reaching across your shoulders, down your back. Can you feel it?"

"May ... maybe. Yeah. I think I can."

"Good. That's good, buddy. Keep concentrating on that numbness." Jim reached a tentative hand toward Blair's shoulder and gently pressed down.

Sandburg screamed in agony, and then started coughing, worse than before.

"I'm sorry, Chief. I'm sorry. Relax. It's okay. Focus on my voice, Blair. Relax. Focus on my voice."

This time when the coughing subsided, Blair was barely conscious. "Simon," Blair said in a tone almost less than a whisper. "Is Simon here?"

"No, Chief. It's just you and me."

"I can hear him. And ... and Rafe."

Curious, Jim reached out with his own hearing. Moving past the rumbling sounds of the growing fire and the roar of distant sirens, he zeroed in on a group of voices.

 _"Get those fire trucks moving,"_ Bellowed Simon Banks.

Jim smiled. Maybe this could work to their advantage. If Blair's concentration was heavily focused on his sense of sound, could that activity reduce his heightened perceptions of touch?

"You're right, Sandburg," Jim offered, deciding to give it a try. "Simon and Rafe are both here. Can you tell me what they're saying?"

"Simon's worried. Says you've been in there ... here ... too long."

"What else can you hear?" Jim carefully pressed a finger against Blair's arm, giving it a feather touch.

Blair flinched, but continued to describe the conversations. "He ... he wants to call in search and rescue. B...but..."

"But what, Chief?"

Jim pressed harder, and Blair cringed, sucking air in through his teeth. Still, he did not cough and he did not cry out. "What is it, Blair?"

"Rafe..." Blair's brows furrowed in concentration. "Rafe wants him to ... to wait."

"That's good, Sandburg. What else?"

When Jim put his arm around his partner and cautiously began to lift him, Blair's agony was reawakened. Yet he merely groaned and continued to focus on Simon's and Rafe's conversation. Sandburg was no idiot, Jim reminded himself. Nor could he ever be tagged as weak. Clearly, Jim was not tricking him with this latest effort. Blair Sandburg was well aware, and obviously approving of the tactic. Blair, himself, was pressing for it to succeed.

~20~

Blair's heartbeat went into overdrive as Jim led him through the smoke filled corridors toward the closest exit. By the time Jim could see the strobing lights of emergency vehicles outside, the stress became too much for his partner to handle. Blair's body went slack in his arms. Caution had ceased to be an option. No longer encumbered by the need to protect Sandburg from further suffering, Jim unceremoniously threw Blair over his shoulder. He sprinted the last few meters despite the added weight, and hurriedly laid Blair down onto the wet pavement beyond reach of the fire.

"Come on, Chief," He said in desperation as he checked for signs of life. "Don't give up on me now."

And there it was: a heartbeat. Though weak and dangerously slow, it was real. It was tangible. Offering further evidence of his partner's strength and resiliency, that soft heartbeat was enough to afford Jim a moment of quiet celebration. He sat back on his heels. Then, closing his eyes, he lifted his head to the sky and cleansed his lungs with the fresh, night air.

When he returned to the moment, to the semi-controlled chaos around him, gratitude exploded into fury. Bud's son, Dr. McGuire, the man responsible for bringing Blair to this state, was kneeling across from him, holding a stethoscope to Sandburg's chest.

"Get away from him," Jim demanded in a coldly quiet tone. "Don't you touch him." In his eyes flared an Arctic blizzard.

"He needs medical attention."

"Not from you."

"It's okay, Jim," Simon interjected with the kind of delicate touch Taggart might use to defuse a bomb. The captain wrapped one, large hand over McGuire's shoulder. "Come on, Doctor. Paramedics will take over."

"I never wanted to do any of this to him," McGuire said sadly as Simon led him away.

"He was a victim too, Jim," Rafe said beside him.

Jim's gaze continued to follow Simon and McGuire.

"Dupris used his mother as an incentive," Rafe continued through Jim's silence. "If McGuire didn't do whatever Dupris said, her life would have been forfeit."

 _How could that excuse what McGuire did? How could anything excuse his actions?_ Jim said nothing. Instead, he gave his attention to the paramedics. They needed to understand what had been done. Part of him knew McGuire would have to provide vital bits of information about the pharmaceuticals involved. Yet Jim also knew he would never allow that man to come anywhere near Sandburg ever again.

~21~

Blair was finally asleep. _Just sleeping_ , Jim reminded himself, despite appearances. The oxygen tent was only there to help Sandburg filter past a plethora of hospital odors. The blanket was raised above him simply to avoid the added weight on his sensitive skin. The IV, which was itself another source of Sandburg's constant pain, was providing nothing more than nutrients, since Blair's extra-sensitive taste buds would not allow him to ingest food.

Against his doctor's recommendations, there was no heart monitor.

Medical science created this condition. Yet medical science, for all its advances and capabilities, could do nothing now to help Sandburg through it. Only time would heal what Dr. McGuire's experimentation had done, and even that was not a guaranteed remedy.

 _It could be days,_ The physician on staff had said after Blair was admitted. _Or even months._ _In all honesty Detective, given the information we've received from Dr. McGuire's studies, we can't be certain the effects won't be permanent._

If this was permanent, what then? Would Blair be forever impaired, forced to endure unending torture all because his nerves were sending skewed signals to his brain? Of course, Sandburg being _Sandburg_ , he might eventually be able to recalibrate his own brain, to coax it back to normalcy - or at least to a state of being that would allow him to function. But to function as what?

"How's he doing?" Even though Simon spoke in a whisper when he poked his head through the door, Sandburg cringed in reaction, his sleep disturbed but not completely disrupted.

Jim help up a hand in a call for silence until his partner settled back into what appeared to be a restful sleep. And then Jim rose from his seat to meet Simon in the corridor.

"It's torture, Simon," He said softly after they moved a few doors away. "This stuff, whatever it is they injected him with ... Simon, if this stuff got into the hands of terrorists, I hate to even imagine what they could do with it."

Simon nodded. "Marconin said it was apparently earmarked for sale to the North Koreans. They wanted to use it to enhance intelligence gathering. For that at least, thank god it's flawed."

"No, Simon. It's not flawed. It's a perfect mechanism for torture. Ongoing, continuous, brutal, agonizing torture that will leave no marks at all. Under the right conditions, even the most insidious regime could fill mass graves and all evidence would point to nothing more than heart attacks."

Simon held silent, seeming to contemplate Jim's unsettling vision. A moment later, he met the other man's gaze. "Doc told me Sandburg's prognosis."

"What prognosis?" Ellison scoffed. "They don't know anything, Simon. Either he'll come out of it or he won't. And if he doesn't ... I just don't know, sir."

"If he doesn't, you'll work with him the way he worked with you. In the long run, couldn't be all bad having two sentinels fighting crime in Cascade." The captain tried to be lighthearted about something Jim could never take lightly.

"It's not that simple. I've never experienced such prolonged sensory spikes before. It's nonstop for him. And when I have experienced a spike, it's never happened with all my senses at once. I'm not sure even working together if we'll ever be able to get it under control."

"Hopefully you won't have to. But if this does turn out to be permanent, then if anyone can do it, it's you two."

"And if we do..." Jim Ellison could not finish the statement. The implications were disheartening at best.

Simon seemed bewildered by Jim's hesitation. "If you do, then what, Jim?" He shrugged before providing his own answer. "You'll work together like you always have. Better than you always have. And you'll just be bigger thorns in my side."

"No. I don't think so."

"What are you saying?"

"What I'm saying, sir is I don't know if we'll even be able to stand to be near one another. Simon, every time I'm close to another sentinel, it's like my hackles rise or something. You know what happened with Alex Barnes. And recently, with Bud McGuire, I wanted to tear the man apart before I even heard a word he said. It's like a primal, innate..." He shook his head. "Whatever it is, I don't want it to see it happen with Sandburg."

"It won't. You two are friends."

Jim studied his captain, looking for an answer he knew he would not find. "What if that's not enough?" He said finally. The words felt traitorous. He did not want to say them. He did not want to even think them. But he had to. Could mere friendship, even brotherhood, override instinct?

"It will be," Simon answered automatically. "Better yet, you'll never have to find out. He'll come out of this, Jim."

"I hope you're right, sir. I really do."

~22~

By day's end, the big news in Hinsdale County said nothing about bioengineering, kidnapping or unethical human experimentation. In fact, the feds had already put a careful spin on the entire incident, transforming it into something far less fantastical and far less difficult for the average American citizen to accept. As the local news explained, "Colorado State Trooper Brian Gibson from the Durango post in Hinsdale County is being recognized as a hero today for his role in closing down a major source of drug trafficking that was operating out of a closed factory owned by Bentley Corporation in Weaver's Creek. Trooper Gibson, who was wounded during an exchange of gunfire at the old mill, is also credited with saving the lives of several local high school students who unwittingly found themselves in the middle of the action Tuesday night as combined forces including state patrol troopers and the FBI staged an all-out assault on the operation."

Jim, in need of caffeine but unwilling to subject Sandburg to the strong aroma, casually sipped coffee in the hospital waiting room as he half-listened to the news report on TV. Both the feds and the media always had agendas. Jim Ellison was far more concerned with his own. All that really mattered was whether or not Blair Sandburg would suffer long-term after-effects from his exposure to McGuire's testing, and the Dupris' and Dr. McGuire would all be made to pay for their actions.

"Detective Ellison," A voice called from the doorway.

Jim turned to find FBI Special Agent Marconin.

"I'm sorry," Marconin said. "I was hoping I could break it to you before they did." He nodded toward the TV.

"It's what I would expect for an official report," Jim answered with a shrug.

"You have so little confidence in your federal government?"

"I have the utmost confidence, Marconin. I am absolutely confident they will go the extra mile to conceal information in order to protect the American public."

Marconin sighed. "Well, in this case I happen to agree it was necessary."

Jim just looked at him.

"Captain Banks told me that you, yourself recognized the significance of those tests to espionage, terrorism, torture," The agent continued.

"That may be," Jim said finally. "But that's not the bottom line reason for the cover-up, is it?"

"No. I'm afraid it's not. The fall-out from this incident is huge. The FBI is doing a major housecleaning, with two agents in Cascade and Boston already implicated. But this reaches DC as well."

Jim tensed. He could not help but wonder whether someone in Washington D.C. was hoping for the kind of _failed_ results McGuire had achieved.

"I can assure you," Marconin added, "they are already starting to fall like a house of cards."

"Maybe." Jim sighed then, his anger fading as he realized another truth existed behind the agent's words. "I understand I have you to thank for calling in the cavalry."

"I'm just glad I was able to intercept Agent Andrews' call."

"Andrews?"

"I'm sorry. You knew her as Julie Stalwort."

"Ms. Stalwort was one of your rogue agents?"

"No. Not at all. She only did what she was told to do. But..." He paused. "I'm afraid the person telling her what to do was in deep."

Jim's gaze went cold.

"Don't hold this against her, Detective. She was only doing her job."

"You might not be so quick to say that if the person she victimized for the sake of doing her job was someone you cared about."

Marconin hesitated, casting a momentary glance out the door. "I'm sure you'll find this hard to believe," He replied then, "but I honestly do care. Despite our first introduction, I came to have a great deal of respect for Sandburg. For your entire team, in fact. When I discovered what was happening, I-" He stopped himself, seeming to search for the appropriate words. "I could not turn a blind eye. Especially when I realized Sandburg was being victimized."

"You risked your career for him."

After a moment, the agent shrugged. "I risked my career for the sake of doing what was right."

"I appreciate that. But don't you see? That's exactly what Stalwort, or Andrews, or whoever she is, that's what she should have done."

"Come on, Ellison. You were in the military. You know what it's like to have the chain of command drilled into you. You do what you're told, without question."

"Not always, Marconin. Not when innocent people are involved, the people youre sworn to protect."

The agent had no answer. "For what it's worth," He said into the ensuing silence, "I really am sorry about what was done to Sandburg. I hope he can get through it."

Jim sighed, nodding. "Yeah." He took another sip of coffee and gave his attention back to the TV.

Marconin, clearly accepting the move as a dismissal, nodded in understanding, and then turned to walk away.

"Marconin?" Jim called after him. When the agent returned, Jim held out his hand. "Thank you," He added, sincerely.

~23~

Jim gazed out onto Trooper Gibsons old, wooden porch where Blair rested on an equally old wooden Adirondack chair. Normally, Jim was sure Sandburg would have preferred the classic porch swing, but things were still far from normal. When he tried the swing that first night, Sandburg became so nauseous and disoriented Jim was ready to take him right back to the hospital.

No, Sandburg had insisted then. Its just my equilibrium, thats all. Its... Havent you ever gotten sick on an amusement park ride, man? Thats all this is, Jim. Ill be fine. Just let me lie down for a little while.

 _Ill be fine_.

Sandburg had spent two weeks in the hospital before he could sufficiently breathe without pure oxygen, or eat bland, texture-less food. That had been followed so far by three days here as Gibsons house-guest while the trooper himself recuperated under the care and supervision of his sister across town. How much longer would it be before Sandburg really was fine? How much longer before he could hear comfortably without ear plugs, or see without dark sunglasses on a cloudy day like this one? How much longer before he could stand to be out in the sun at all?

How much longer before Jim could dare to take him home to the lights, the noise and the general chaos of Cascade?

Would things ever really be _fine_ again?

Jim smiled sadly, realizing how fine things had always been between him and Blair. Despite extreme differences in personalities that often - _too often?_ \- got in the way of good judgment, they had formed a perfect partnership. Jim, himself had almost thrown all of that away after the unauthorized media release of Blairs dissertation. If not for Blairs own sacrifice, that perfect partnership, the best friendship Jim had ever known, would have dissolved. Jim, blaming Blair for things neither of them could control, had been prepared to let that happen. Blair had not. In a last ditch effort to prevent it, or at least to make amends when they were not his to make, Blair had thrown his entire career away. Everything hed ever worked for was sacrificed to protect Jim. What had Jim been prepared to sacrifice? Friendship. Now he was determined never to let that happen again.

First, he had to help Sandburg find a new sense of normalcy - physically, emotionally and financially. After all, Blair was out of work. His recent hospital bills would break an already barely soluble bank. Jim would not let that happen.

Wondering who he should talk to about taking out a mortgage on the loft, Jim turned on the faucet at the kitchen sink and filled a mug with tepid water before quickly dipping a tea bag. Weak tea had taken on new meaning under these conditions. Blair could handle nothing stronger than the merest hint of chamomile. Nor could he drink anything too far above room temperature.

Jim stepped out onto the porch to join his friend, and then set the mug down on the arm rest of Blairs chair before settling himself on the porch railing.

Sandburg? Jim said softly when his friend made no response, apparently oblivious both to Jims presence and to his offering of tea. Blair? Still there was no response.

Concerned, Jim slid off the railing and reached for Sandburgs arm. He gave a gentle nudge. Chief?

Still nothing.

His internal alarm bells ringing, Jim gave no more thought to tender caution. He fell to his knees beside his partner and ripped the sunglasses from Sandburgs face. Blairs eyes were closed.

Sandburg! Jim shouted even as he detected a strong pulse that set his most immediate fears at ease. He squeezed Blairs shoulder and once again called out his name. Sandburg!

There was a jerking motion beneath Jims palm. His partners eyes fluttered open. Blair looked toward Jim in confusion, seeming unable to focus.

Sandburg? You okay?

Blair grabbed at Jims arm, his hand digging into Jims flesh. The mug of tea, unbalanced, crashed onto the wooden planks of the porch.

Whats wrong, Chief?

His expression contorted with an anxiety Jim could not yet understand, Blair pulled out his ear plugs with his free hand.

Sandburg? Whats going on? Talk to me.

Blairs gaze sought his, still unfocused. Jim? Jim? Is that you?

God, Chief, Jim sighed. Its me. Im here, buddy. He passed his hand over Blairs eyes. There was no response. Can you see anything? Anything at all?

Jim? Blair repeated. Is that you, man?

Jims grip tightened on his partners shoulder. Blair! He shouted. Tell me you can hear me!

Blair said nothing at all.

Mr. Sandburgs tests are all coming back fine, Dr. Alicia Meyers told Jim and Simon several hours later at the neurological center in Raniers research hospital. They had opted to fly Blair closer to home after it became obvious transporting him would no longer pose a danger to his spiking senses. We can find no physical reason for his present condition.

Youre saying its all in his head? Jim spat angrily.

No. Not in the way you think. Mr. Sandburgs neurology suffered an extreme imbalance when he was injected with those drugs to heighten his senses. I believe what were seeing now are the aftereffects.

Aftereffects? Simon questioned. Does that mean those drugs are finally out of his system?

The drugs worked their way out of his system long ago, Captain Banks. The _impact_ of those drugs lasted much longer, but it looks like even that may have finally worked its way out. Hes coming back to normal, gentlemen. His body now needs to readjust to what it means to experience normal sensory input.

Jim closed his eyes in relief. How long will he be like this? He asked then.

Dr. Meyers shook her head. Thats impossible to say. It could be days. It could be weeks.

Dont hand us that, Jim shouted. Thats the same bullshit they told us before.

Dr. Meyers met his glare. Would you prefer me to lie? I could tell you hell be good as new by high-noon tomorrow. I could also tell you the lottery numbers, but it doesnt mean theyre going to win. Be patient, detective. Your partner has been through a lot. Frankly, what hes experienced is beyond anything thats ever been tested. There is no magic pill we can give him to make it all go away.

Of course, doctor, Simon said, glancing cautiously at Jim. Thank you. What do we do now?

Take him home. Theres nothing more we can do for him here. Well schedule an appointment to retest him in a couple of days. We can begin to monitor his progress from there. In the meantime, I can give you some exercises and tests you can do with him at home.

~24~

 _One Month Later_

Setting the stack of papers aside, Blair took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Jim, he said, I dont know what youre cooking, but I have to tell you it does _not_ smell appetizing.

Its not supposed to. Not yet, anyway. This, my friend, is the foundation for any good Cajun cooking.

Foundation? From the looks of this smoke, youre gonna burn this building down to its foundation. What are you doing?

Come on. Im making a roux, here. This is a very delicate operation. If I burn the roux, Ill ruin the jambalaya.

Too late for that, man, Blair said, coughing. He reached across Jim and switched the stoves fan up to full speed.

Damn. Jim admitted his defeat before grabbing the pot and tossing it into the sink. I mustve had the heat set too high.

Only then did Jim seem to notice the thin fog of smoke his failed efforts at roux had stirred up in the loft. Fortunately, it had not yet reached the smoke detector. Hoping to prevent setting off that irritating alarm, Jim hurriedly began opening windows and fanning a dish towel to force the smoke outside.

Blair, jumping in with another dish towel, was still coughing.

Ease up there, Chief. You okay? The smokes not that bad.

Not that bad? Blair coughed. Are you kidding me?

Seeing that his friends eyes were red, Jim dropped the towel onto the counter. He grabbed Blair and started pushing him out of the kitchen. Let me handle this. Actually, looks like its already handled. Why dont we both just step out onto the balcony? Get some fresh air while the fan does its job in here.

Whoa. Jim. What are you doing? Blair swung himself out of Jims grip and backed up against the couch. Meeting his friends gaze, he seemed surprised by the amount of concern and bewilderment he saw in Jims eyes.

Jim clenched his jaw. He glanced toward the kitchen, then back to Blair. Your senses are spiking again, arent they? His words sounded almost accusatory.

What? No, Jim. This is normal. This is perfectly normal. He coughed once more and then cleared his throat. You cant tell me the smoke didnt get to you.

Sandburg, it didnt even get to the smoke detector, and you know how sensitive that is. Maybe we should do some more tests, see if something else is happening.

Tests? Blair started laughing between bouts of coughing. Now youre eager to run tests on _me_. Youve got to admit thats an interesting twist.

Im serious, Sandburg.

Im fine, Jim. Ill admit that sometimes things spike a little bit. He shrugged. Sometimes just the opposite-

Why didnt you tell me this before?

What? Why Jim? It doesnt matter. You and I both know Im on my own with this.

Jims eyes practically glowed with rage. No, He said coldly. You are not alone with this. Were a team here. Something happens with you, you need to tell me. I cant do a damn thing for you if you dont clue me in.

Jim, you cant do anything about this.

You shouldve told me.

Yeah, well, there are a lot of things you should have told me before, too.

Jims jaw clenched again. Okay. He nodded. Fair enough. But all that stops now. Got it, Chief? No more going it alone.

Sure. Okay. Yeah. No more going it alone. Blair cleared his throat. On that note, I could use some help filling out all those forms. He pointed at the kitchen table. It would almost be easier if I had just been the victim of identify theft. This trying to prove I even exist is insane.

Sandburg, everything about the past couple of months has been insane. The paperworks nothing.

Blair brightened. Does that mean youll help?

Sure. No problem, Jim emphasized his statement with a shrug. But later. You still look like you could use some fresh air. Why dont you head outside? Ill get you some water, and then... With another shrug, Jim started back toward the kitchen.

And then ... _what_?

Well talk.

I dont know, Jim, Blair started as he gazed up at the first stars appearing in the slowly darkening sky. Most of it was like some bizarre dream.

Nightmare, Jim corrected.

Mostly. Yeah. But... He seemed confused. Not all of it. You know, I dont really remember all that much. We have a natural defense mechanism that helps block memories of pain, and I know most of what I experienced... Well, lets just say I dont really remember it all that clearly. But...

Jim studied him quietly, giving Blair whatever time he needed to find his words.

I dont know, Blair continued after a while. I mean, it sounds really crazy. But... I could almost swear I remember hearing... His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. And then he shook his head and laughed. No. It doesnt just sound crazy. It _is_ crazy.

What Chief? Jim prompted. What did you hear?

Blair turned to him, meeting his gaze. Sandburg sighed heavily then, his nervous smile fading. Finally he looked back into the deepening night. Jim, when you were in that grotto with Alex, you told me she went where no sentinel should go. She saw things not meant for human eyes.

Jim tensed, remembering Alexs words to him that day. _I can feel the vibrations in the earth itself. I can hear the clouds moving in the sky. I can see the molecules in a drop of water_.

Jim, Blair went on, I think I was there, man. It was just for a short while, but I could swear... I could swear I heard the universe breathing.

His grip tightening on the arms of his chair, Jim forced himself to sound casual in his reply. Maybe you did.

But hows that possible? I mean, Alex was a natural sentinel, yet when she tried to take it even farther, when she tried to push her natural abilities to another level, she snapped. The human body just was not designed to experience those things. He paused. What they tried to do with me, in that lab... They tried to synthesize a sentinel, to create abilities that were unnatural. If what they did to me took me to that level even for a moment, how is it I didnt end up like her, or worse?

I dont know Sandburg. Maybe its simply because she had a choice.

Blair smiled, seeming intrigued. Are you trying to tell me you think the cosmos has a conscience?

Look Chief, I know you have a natural born curiosity thats going to make this sound like blasphemy or something, but I think there are some things out there we simply should not question. Jim leaned forward in his chair, bringing him closer to his partner. The important thing for us to know is that you did not end up like Alex Barnes. But the fact is, these spikes youre experiencing, what if they take you back to that level again? Thats why youve got to fill me in, let me know whats happening, so I can be there to bring you back if for any reason you cant do it alone.

I wont, Blair answered softly. Go it alone, I mean.

Good. Now about those spikes, how are you doing right now?

Now? Hey, I think Im good, man.

Good enough for a Corona? Twist of lime?

Yeah, he smiled. I could handle that. Dinner would be good, too. What about that jambalaya?

How about we try that new place downtown instead?

How about we order in, instead?

We could do that. Wing Hos?

I was thinking more along the lines of Pizza Heaven.

That dump? Come on, youre the one whos always getting on me about junk food.

This was good, Jim thought. Partnership was not always about agreeing, after all. It was just about being there for one another. Jim could only hope that neither of them would ever forget that again.

 _end*_

 _*at least for now..._

 _Stay tuned for a story that will follow up loose ends in this story, as well as some loose ends in "Flies in an Emerald Web" and "Outnumb3red."_

 _"Outnumb3red Again: The Missing Link" is currently a WIP. ;-)_

* * *

[1] See _Flies in an Emerald Web_ , a previous story by Freya-Kendra.


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